


Pass Through Those Years

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Late 00's/Early 2010's, Ensemble Cast, Illustrated, M/M, Minor Gueira/Meis (Promare), Promare Big Burn 2020, Slow Burn, Teenage sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:35:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24345118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: The kid has four piercings in his left ear, two in his right, and a ring looped through his eyebrow. He has pins stabbed all over his black jacket, and he’s looking at Galo like he’s about to try and claw Galo’s guts open with his fingernails.“I don’t think she needs your help,” Fotia says. “Come on, Thyma, let’s go.” He slings his arm over the girl’s shoulders and leads her down the hallway, not giving Galo another look. Now that he’s finally out of Galo’s personal space, Galo can see the immense pink triangle stitched to the back of his jacket.“What’d Ido?” he demands of their backs, gesturing angrily at the air. He helped, dammit! She was scared! He ran them off! What was he supposed to do!Fotia glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Are you still here?” he asks, contempt dripping off his voice. “Better be careful. You might catch the gay.”
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Comments: 38
Kudos: 188
Collections: Promare Big Burn 2020





	1. party don't start till I walk in

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Strong warnings for institutional and individual homophobia and bullying, including homophobic and ableist slurs. Also features brief verbal sexual harassment; moderate violence. Galo's backstory is similar to canon, and touches briefly on a few rough years in the foster system. Not nearly as grim a fic as that list implies. The underage content is nothing traumatic: just normal teenage masturbation and fantasy, and the indication that further exploration will happen in the future. (No onscreen fucking, sorry; it didn't work with the arc.)
> 
> The absolutely gorgeous art is by Michelle Vo, whose gallery is [here](https://michellevo.pb.gallery/illustrations). The art is also rebloggable from her Tumblr [here](https://atttchooooluieieiieiie.tumblr.com/post/619620801347551232), and either one should give you a higher-res look as well. (Which is worth taking!) 
> 
> The many other thanks that I owe are in chapter 11, along with sources for the fic title, chapter titles, and the various quotes that show up in-story.

It’s not like Galo _wants_ to get into a fight on his first day at a new school.

He’d really rather not, if he has the choice! The first bell hasn’t even rung yet. He’s a _fire_ fighter, dammit, not a people-fighter. (Well, aspiring firefighter.) And he honestly doesn’t like causing trouble.

But there’s a group of guys at the end of the hall, around an off-white locker that isn’t any of theirs, and the girl at the locker looks like a freshman. She has bushy reddish-brown hair, and a pimple on her chin, and she’s not looking up at any of the guys looming over her. She’s staring straight ahead, gaze fixed on her combination lock, and the look on her face makes Galo think of scared rabbits and of little kids at the doctor’s office when the nurse is coming close with a shot.

And at least two of the guys looming over her are wearing the same blue-and-red football jersey that’s stretched over Galo’s shoulders. So it’s really, absolutely, one hundred percent his responsibility.

“Hellooo,” one of the guys is cooing as Galo comes up to join them. It’s singsong and smarmy and not even remotely like a real greeting. “Hello. Hello. Hello. _Hey._ Why won’t you talk to me, huh? I’m just being friendly.”

“Maybe she’s a lez,” one of the other guys says. Snickers spark off all of them, quiet and mean.

“Oh, is that it?” the first guy asks. “Do you not wanna talk to me ‘cause you’re a lesbian? Are you just too interested in wet hairy pussy to talk to me, is that what’s going on? Hey, I’m just trying to be friendly. I’m just trying to get to know you, huh. Why won’t you answer?” He leans in. His friends are grinning behind him.

Galo slams his hand into the locker. “ _All right,_ that’s enough,” he says, pitching his voice loud over the echoes of the clang. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, okay? So go away!”

“Nobody fucking asked you, Thymos,” another of the guys says. And shit, it’s Vulcan. Galo met him at summer football practice. He had seemed… okay, he hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ but Galo didn’t like him much. Doesn’t like him any better now.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see her ask you either, Vulc,” Galo says, staring him down. “Come on, don’t you have anything better to do?”

There’s a shift, some muttering around them. Finally Vulcan shrugs. “All right, knock yourself out,” he says, and grins lecherously at Galo. “Maybe she’ll talk to you, huh? If she’s not a dyke.” And with that, the group breaks, ambling off down the hallway. Galo turns to the girl, giving her his best rescuer’s smile. She glances up at him and then back to the locker, not unbending even a little.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he says. She gets her locker open, still not looking at him, and slings her backpack in. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she says at the edge of sound, and yanks her backpack open. She studies its color-coded notebooks and pulls out the blue one, and a sparkling silver pencil case. She still hasn’t made eye contact for more than half a second.

“They’re just jerks,” Galo says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t believe any of that crap they were saying or anything! I know they —”

She slams her locker shut hard enough for the clang to reverberate halfway down the hall. “And so what if it were true?” she snaps, glaring up at him from under her hair. “I’m not saying it is! But if it was, would that matter, huh? Would it just be fine? Is that —”

“Hey, no, I didn’t —”

“Hey.” And someone practically shoulder-checks Galo out of the way.

This guy barely comes up to Galo’s shoulder and he’s built slim and delicate, probably half Galo’s weight. But he moves like he doesn’t know it, and Galo wasn’t expecting someone to shove past him that roughly, so he ends up knocked a couple steps back and finds himself looking down at a head of long green hair.

“You’re Thyma, right?” the guy says, ignoring Galo completely. “I saw you around in the middle school wing a couple of times.”

“Yeah,” the girl says warily, but she’s relaxing a little, in a way she never did for Galo. “Hi.”

“I’m Lio Fotia,” he says. “Junior.”

“Yeah, I — I know.”

“Cool. Come with me, you can sit with us until the bell rings.” He jerks his head towards the cafeteria, down at the end of the hall. “There’s a few of us.”

“Th… thanks.” She nods, with something that’s almost a smile, and turns to follow him, turning her back on Galo completely.

“Hey!” Galo squawks. “I was trying to help!” The guy — Fotia — turns on his heel, snapping his head up to glare, and _whoa._ The kid has four piercings in his left ear, two in his right, and a ring looped through his eyebrow. He has pins stabbed all over his black jacket, and he’s looking at Galo like he’s about to try and claw Galo’s guts open with his fingernails.

“I don’t think she needs your help,” Fotia says. “Come on, Thyma, let’s go.” He slings his arm over the girl’s shoulders and leads her down the hallway, not giving Galo another look. Now that he’s finally out of Galo’s personal space _,_ Galo can see the immense pink triangle stitched to the back of his jacket.

Even confused and offended as hell, Galo can respect that. That’s ballsy as hell _and_ he’s got style. Unfortunately, he also appears to be an asshole.

“What’d I _do_?” he demands of their backs, gesturing angrily at the air. He helped, dammit! She was scared! He ran them off! What was he supposed to do!

Fotia glances over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. “Are you still here?” he asks, contempt dripping off his voice. “Better be careful. You might catch the gay _._ ” He flutters his fingers dismissively in Galo’s direction, somehow making even the gesture look sarcastic, and walks Thyma off without another word.

“I know that’s not how it works!” Galo says to his retreating back, completely ignored. “I’m not an idiot, okay. At least not that kind of idiot.”

“Dude,” someone says, in passing. “Who are you talking to?”

“Um,” Galo says, and then the bell goes off, startling Galo about out of his skin. Well, it’ll be good fucking practice for fire alarms apparently. And _shit,_ he still doesn’t actually know where his homeroom is. Shit shit hell.

* * *

One set of directions and two minutes of hallway-jogging later, Galo can admit he maybe kind of stuck his foot in it there. He hadn’t actually been thinking about what any of them said, only that they were trying to insult her and also complete jerks. All he _meant_ was that they were farting out of their mouths and he knew it, but okay, yeah, that’s not what he actually said. Crap. And the girl, Thyma, it doesn’t seem like she’s going to listen to him if he tries to apologize for it.

Crap crap crap.

Also he just nearly overshot room C8, other different crap.

He swings himself in through the door, almost trips, waves to the class as a whole, grins to the teacher, and jogs to a free spot at the back of the classroom. This class is organized in two-person tables in long even rows. He drops into a free seat next to a girl with strawberry-blond hair, and immediately knocks his elbow into a long black case.

“Hey, be careful!”

“Sorry, sorry!” He nudges it carefully back onto safe ground. “What is that, anyway?”

“It’s my clarinet.”

“Oh cool!” Galo’s old school didn’t have a band class; he didn’t have to worry about bumping into clarinets. “You’re in marching band, that’s awesome.”

The bell goes off at that moment, and the teacher rockets to her feet, smiling out at them all. “Good morning, class, I’m Miz Fiametta,” she announces. “Everybody in your seats, please.” That one comes with a really _pointed_ smile at a table that still has six girls clustered around it. They split into seats a little sheepishly, and Galo uses the cover of that to whisper (well, sort-of whisper), “I’m Galo Pérez Thymos! I just moved here.” He doesn’t give himself any other adjectives right now; it’s not like he’s here to save American Lit from anything. The girl nods, but before she can say anything, the teacher calls out, “Aina Ardebit!”

She jumps. “That’s me!”

“Ardebit?” The teacher raises her eyebrows. “Are you related to Heris Ardebit?”

“She’s my older sister,” apparently-Aina says, raising her chin a determined half-inch.

“I had her a few years ago,” the teacher says. “Wonderful student, when she wasn’t reading her physics textbook under the desk.”

“That sounds like her,” Aina says, smiling. “She’s starting her PhD at Stanford now, I’m really proud of her.”

“Oh, wonderful,” the teacher says. “I’m glad to hear it. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you have for me.”

“Well, probably not a physics PhD,” Aina says, with a small and self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure,” the teacher says, and moves on to the next list. Aina flips open her notebook to the front, uncaps a bright mechanical pencil, and jots in curling delicate handwriting, _All I can do is my best, and if I do my best I can be proud of myself._

“That’s nice,” Galo whispers. “What’s that from?”

“Huh?” She slams her notebook shut. “I — what?”

“What you wrote! It’s a quote from somebody, right?”

“Not really, it’s just a thing. Why were you looking at my notebook, anyway?”

“I didn’t mean to, I’m just sitting right here,” Galo protests. “Your handwriting is really nice.”

“Are you hitting on me about my _handwriting_?”

“No!” Galo says, nearly forgetting to whisper. The teacher, fortunately, does not notice. “Jesus, what’s _with_ people at this school? I’m trying to be friendly!”

“Okay, sorry!” She sighs. “People don’t usually talk to me about my writing. What do you mean, was somebody else a jerk?”

“Just really weird,” Galo says. “Uh, a girl named Thyma, and… I think he said his name was Fotia?”

“Lio Fotia? Black denim jacket? You probably shouldn’t take it personally, he’s like that with everyone,” she says. “Everyone says he got in a fight last year behind the dumpsters. I don’t know if he started it, though.” She shrugs one shoulder. “He’s not very friendly.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.” Except to Thyma. What was up with that?

“Galo Thymos!”

Galo almost jumps out of his chair. “That’s me!” He waves. “I’m new! I have a —”

“Well, welcome to East Foresight High,” the teacher says, cutting off _burning soul._ “Nita Torren?”

“Fine,” Galo mutters, “ _don’t_ let me introduce myself.”

“Wanna trade?” Aina mutters.

“Oh. Are you not really that proud of your sister?”

“I _am_!” Aina says, again loud enough that the teacher is clearly not paying attention. “I really am, she’s amazing. I’m just going to be having that conversation all day, that’s all.” She shrugs. “It’s better than if she got in trouble all the time or something. I’m not as smart as she is, but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

“You seem pretty smart,” Galo offers, and gets a slow and dawning smile before the teachers snaps her attendance book shut.

“All right, all present,” she says, “that’s good. Anyone here who shouldn’t be? No? Okay, here’s the syllabus, I’m going to pass it down the rows,” and Galo’s new friend straightens up to listen. Galo does too, wondering if any of the books are going to be interesting.

Second period is shop class, which Galo is honestly pretty excited about, but he doesn’t recognize any of the people in class and all they do today is go over the safety rules. Which is important! (Galo takes notes.) But it’s not what you’d call fun. Galo’s excited to use some of those saws, though; they’re _big._

Also sweet: shop class is only a few doors down from Algebra II. This may mean some very loud algebra classes, but it also means Galo doesn’t have to bolt halfway across the school for next period. He claims a spot near the back of the room, drops his stuff on the desk (individual ones, here), and settles in to watch his classmates arrive. No sign of Aina, which is a shame, he liked her, but there’s four different girls all wearing identical Uggs. Close on their heels is Vulcan, who waves and drops his bag onto the desk next to Galo. “Hey, Thy- _mos_.”

“Hey,” Galo says. Vulcan grins at him, casual as ever; okay, it’s a little sharklike, but he always looks like that. Apparently they’re not mentioning that thing this morning, which, okay. It’s not like Vulcan was even the one doing most of the talking; maybe he was just trying to figure out to break it up. It might be fine. “How’s it going?”

“Eh,” Vulcan says, shrugging. “Chemistry first period. Some retard is gonna set themselves on fire.”

“What? Yikes,” Galo says. “There’s a fire extinguisher, right? And probably a chemical rinse, but that won’t work on every kind of fire —”

“Chill, Galo, jeez,” Vulcan says, rolling his eyes. “It was a joke.”

“Okay, okay,” Galo says, adding, “Fire is serious business,” in a low mutter that Vulcan either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore. Galo flips open his notebook resentfully and starts trying to doodle a Type 1 fire engine from memory. Galo can’t draw for shit, but it’s something to do with his hands.

He’s halfway through a really misshapen ladder when a flicker of green at the door catches his eye, and — yup, even if there’s two green-haired scene kids in this school, Galo recognizes that jacket. Apparently he has Algebra with Lio. Galo tries to catch his eye — it’d be nice to clear things up from the morning, maybe start over, he was really specifically trying _not_ to be a dick — but Lio has earbuds in and his eyes fixed on the floor. He drops into the desk one row ahead of Galo, over to the left. Vulcan mutters something to the guy on his other side — another football guy, Galo thinks his name is Vince — and they both laugh, low and snickering.

Seriously, the triangle thing is pretty cool. Galo’s straight himself but it’s not like he has a problem with anybody, and he respects anyone who believes in anything enough to be that brave. (Well, unless they believe in like, world war forever.) It’d be nice to patch things up, especially if he’s apparently going to be staring at the proof of Lio’s courage every day in Algebra. Assuming Lio wears that jacket a lot, but Galo has this feeling he does.

The bell goes off at that point, and the balding man at the front of the classroom yawns, stretches, and stands up. “Hello, class,” he starts, and Galo lets his eyes glaze over, because no one ever says anything important on the first day anyway, it’s all “here’s your textbook, please do the homework.”

Galo draws three engines, all specific models but kind of unrecognizable, by the time the bell rings for the end of period. He takes his time gathering his stuff together, letting Vulcan drift out, and follows Lio out into the hallway.

“Hey!” he says. “Lio?”

Lio flatly ignores him.

“Lio?”

Nothing.

“Hey, _Lio!_ ” Galo jogs after him, half-stepping in front. “It’s me, did you not hear me?”

Lio glares up at him from under a fringe of pale-green hair. “No,” he bites out, stepping around Galo. “I didn’t.”

“Oh.” He does have his earbuds in still; he might’ve gotten away with hiding them all class, actually. “Well, I was just trying to say hi!”

There is a moment of brutally awkward silence. Lio blinks. “Hi,” he says, absolutely deadpan, and keeps walking. Galo jogs after him.

“Listen, I just wanted to say, about earlier — hey!” This last is because Lio just rolled his eyes so obviously they could probably see him do it on Mars. “I was just trying to help!”

“Congratulations,” Lio says. “It looked like you helped a lot.”

“There was one of me instead of six guys talking to her about” — he lowers his voice — “about pussy, okay? Look, I know said the wrong thing, and I’m sorry, but I just meant they were being jerks for no reason —”

“I don’t know what you said,” Lio cuts him off, “because we didn’t talk about you. If it was the wrong thing, she’s the one you owe an apology to, but the better thing to do would be to leave her alone. She’s a freshman, and she has more important things to worry about. And so do I.” And with that, he spins on his heel and stalks off down the hallway, boots clacking on the linoleum floor.

“Well — but — I —” Galo is distracted from his indignation by the sight of a tall blond figure in a crisp white shirt. “Oh, hey, Mr. Kray! Mr. Kray!”

“Mr. Foresight for now, Galo, please,” Mr. Kray says, smiling at him. “Or Coach.” Everyone calls him _coach_ at practice. “It’s not the community center, after all, I’m at work.”

“Right, sorry.” Galo nods. “Your school seems really great! I think I have your class later, right? US History?”

“That’s me, yes,” Coach Kray says, nodding. “Was that Lio Fotia I saw you talking to?”

“Yeah.” Galo wilts. “I don’t know what his problem with me is.”

“He’s one of our local troublemakers.” Coach Kray shakes his head. “Terrible, terrible attitude. It’s a shame.”

“Yeah. Not like me!” Galo poses proudly. He’s had _good positive attitude_ on most of his report cards since second grade, counterbalancing things like _loud_ and _hyperactive_ and _impulsive._ The corner of Coach Kray’s mouth twitches.

“Not at all like you,” he says, and claps Galo on the back. “Well, I’ll see you later, Galo.”

“Seventh period! See you then!” Galo waves and jogs off backward down the hallway, beaming. Coach Kray’s been one of his favorite grown-ups since he was eight, and was Galo’s actual favorite until he got edged out by Tialma. He’s one of the most regular volunteers at the Promepolis Youth and Community Center — drives all the way into the county’s only city in order to volunteer there, even! Galo spent half his childhood at PYC, after the fire, and Mr. Kray was a constant every week. Actually having class with him is one of the best parts about moving out to East Lake.

“Don’t run in the halls,” Coach Kray chides, smiling. That’s Mr. Kray, all right, always pushing everyone to be their best.

* * *

Galo brings that positive energy into chemistry lab, which is good because that one is in fact a safety briefing instead of the normal boring spiel. Also, he and Aina are lab partners, and he wouldn’t want to blow anyone up, but especially not her, she’s nice.

Apparently they’re going to be using Bunsen burners and stuff, which students sure never did at his old school. Galo isn’t super wild about it — he doesn’t light fires, dammit, it’s a whole _thing_ — but it’s at least different from a real actual full-on _fire,_ and a lot safer. And, even more exciting, after chemistry lab is lunch _,_ which is excellent because by now Galo is starving.

The cafeteria is high-ceilinged and full of light, and Galo likes it immediately. Also, lunch today is chicken fingers, which is a pretty great start to the year. He loads up his tray, weaves his way through the tables, and ends up thumping into a seat at a table full of his teammates.

“Hey, Galo,” Ignis says, smiling behind his sunglasses. Galo’s fairly sure you’re not supposed to wear sunglasses in class, but a) they’re not in class, b) that’s kind of a stupid rule, and c) Ignis is cool enough that he might be able to get away with it.

“Hey, cap,” Galo says, grinning. “How’s it going?

“Pretty well,” Ignis says. “Senior perks. I’ve got a study hall and a period TA’ing in the library.”

“Oooh, nice,” Galo says appreciatively. “You’ll be a great TA.” There’s a wave of chuckles around the table, and Ignis smiles.

“Thanks,” he says, and digs into his lunch. There’s a scraping sound next to Galo as someone — Vulcan — pulls another chair into the sliver of space next to him. Vulcan sniffs.

“Ew,” he says, “I smell lineman.”

“Hey!” Galo squawks, amid genial laughter. “I’m wearing deodorant!” (He is, it’s Old Spice.)

“Hey, everyone contributes,” Ignis says mildly, which is why he’s the captain. Galo’s been here for like two weeks and he likes Ignis a lot.

“Yeah, yeah,” Vulcan says. “Any other motivational posters for us, grandpa?” Things devolve into sniping from there, which Ignis mostly lets roll off him like water off a duck. Galo doesn’t really want to join in; there’s nothing about Ignis that he wants to make fun of, nor any of the rest of them.

“Oh, hey!” Galo spots Aina passing through, tray in hand, and waves frantically. “Aina, hi!”

She glances over her shoulder even though Galo _just said her name_ , and then waves back. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”

“Wanna sit here?” Galo asks, pointing at… well, there’s no chair, but there’s a spot where one could totally be squeezed in. She blinks. So do several of the guys.

“Dude,” one of the other guys says quietly.

“Uh,” Aina says.

“What?” Galo says. “You’re my friend, they’re my friends, there’s room.”

“Are you an idiot?” she asks.

“Hey! Why am I an idiot?!”

“Look at the table,” she says. “Your elbow is in his mashed potatoes.”

“Oh shit!” This is true, and Galo snatches his arm back. “Sorry, cap.”

“No worries,” Ignis says, “I wasn’t going to eat them anyway.”

“Why do you _call_ him that?” the guy next to Vulcan says. “It’s so weird.”

“He’s the captain!” Galo protests. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because no one does that!” Vulcan says. “Anyway, we all know Coach wanted me to be captain.”

“Nuh-uh,” Galo says, “or you would be, right? Ignis is a great captain.” It’s important to get along with your teammates, but Galo is really starting to not like Vulcan very much.

“All right, all right,” Ignis says, as Vulcan is opening his mouth. “Galo can call me whatever he wants as long as he stops sticking his elbow in my lunch. The captain’s usually a senior. That’s all it is.”

“Yeah!” Galo glances around. “Hey, where’d Aina go?” After a little more head-craning, he catches sight of her at a table by the windows, next to a girl with bright blond pigtails streaked with pink. “Dammit.”

“Nice one,” says one of Vulcan’s buddies — Roych, Galo thinks? “Real smooth.”

“She’s not even that hot,” Vulcan adds.

“It’s not like that!” Galo complains. “We’re at the same desk in homeroom and she seems cool. I can’t be friends with a girl now?” He frowns. “And what do you mean, she’s not that hot?” There’s nothing wrong with how she looks. He glances over again to see if there’s something he’s missing, but no, she’s pretty. She also clearly didn’t want him hitting on her earlier, so there’s no real point thinking of her like that, but her smile is cute! And she’s muscled in a volleyball-player kind of way, and she has really long legs. People like legs.

Apparently all the kids with dyed hair sit over by the windows, because just past Aina’s table he spots Lio, sitting with Thyma from this morning. There’s a couple other people at the table too: a half-assed goth, a girl half-buried in a sweatshirt, a kid in a tight T-shirt in bright teal. They all look young, freshmen or sophomores; Lio’s the only upperclassman at the table. He looks different, more relaxed, head bent to listen to the kid in the teal as he chatters on about… what? What are they talking about over there?

“ _Real_ smooth,” someone at his table says. Even Ignis is smiling.

“What?” Galo protests, jerking his head back around.

“Kinda staring there, Galo,” Ignis says.

“No I wasn’t!” Galo says, and there’s a round of laughter, most of it kind. “All of you guys are weird,” Galo complains, and attacks his chicken enthusiastically.


	2. all the other kids with the pumped up kicks

“Hey, I’m home!” Galo bellows, tossing his backpack on top of the pile of shoes and chucking his sneakers after it. The wall clock kind of vibrates but it’s fine.

“Ow, Galito, I’m right here.” Tialma is standing at the kitchen table, folding a hamper full of her scrubs. She stretches up on her tiptoes; Galo crosses the kitchen and leans down for the requisite kiss on the cheek. He has to lean down kind of a long way these days; she doesn’t come up as far as his shoulder anymore, even counting the extra inch she gets from the deep-red curling cloud of her hair. (Her roots come in dark and that’s all he knows about what color it really is; it’s been red as long as he’s known her.) “How’s the new school?”

“Pretty good?” Galo boosts himself onto the counter, slotting himself between the novelty salt-and-pepper-shakers and the butter dish. “It’s _really_ small, the same girl’s in three of my classes.” Aina’s in his Spanish class, too, last period.

“Get off the counter before I decide you must be food and stick you in the oven to roast,” Tialma says, flapping a blue scrub shirt in his direction. “Is she nice?”

“Oh yeah, she seems cool,” Galo says, sliding unchastened back to the floor. “Shop looks like it’s gonna be great, and of course Mr. Kray’s history class is going to be awesome. Coach Kray,” he corrects himself. “There’s guys from football in most of my classes too. And we’re doing _Catcher in the Rye_ first in English, the library doesn’t have it on CD but I’m gonna check the town one.”

“Sounds good, sounds good,” she says. “Have you seen my scrubs with the flowers on them?”

“Nope.”

“Why do I even ask,” she says, shaking her head.

“I really don’t know,” Galo says cheerfully. “I’ve probably washed them without noticing, I just throw everything that feels like scrubs in there without looking at it.”

“You know, I can’t even argue,” she sighs, “you’ve never shrunk anything. So, meet anyone new?”

“Yeah, lots of people.” He drops into the other kitchen chair, scuffing his feet across the floor. “There’s this one guy I don’t think likes me much, though.”

“And you care about his opinion how come, then?” she asks, shaking out a pair of pants with a sharp snap.

“Because I think it’s kind of my fault,” he admits, fiddling with the candlestick in the middle of the table. (Electric, of course.) “I was trying to help with something and I think something I said came out sounding bad, I don’t feel great about it.”

“Did you try talking to him about it?”

“Yes I did,” he says, a little indignant. “He didn’t want to hear it. I think he still thinks I’m an asshole.”

“Well, if he’s smart I’m sure he’ll figure out you’re a good guy pretty quick,” she says.

“I hope so,” Galo says, chewing at his lip. He thinks about trying to explain what Lio’s like: how he’s a flash of bright defiant color through the crowd, the way when he’s angry he moves like he’s twice as big as he actually is. Eventually he settles on, “He seems cool.”

“Then he’ll figure out what you’re like,” she says, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Awww, Tialma,” he complains, trying to coax his hair back into place. “You’re just saying that cause you like me.”

“Nope, I like you cause it’s true,” she says, smiling. “Don’t argue with me, I have excellent taste.”

“Except in bacon,” Galo mumbles.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I did not just hear you talking crap about my bacon, kiddo. Just because some people like it practically raw —”

“You mean not totally burned —”

“I’ve failed you,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve raised you wrong.”

“Nope,” he says, beaming. “You did great.”

“Mind your tenses, you’re only sixteen,” she says, but she’s blinking a little, smiling. She leans over to kiss his hair again, on the shaved side this time so she doesn’t mess up the spikes. Galo lets her, smiling right back.

(People give him crap, sometimes, for being so close to Tialma. Galo doesn’t listen and he’s never going to start. Plenty of people don’t even get _one_ chance at a good family, and here he is with a second one, and Coach Kray looking out for him besides. What’s he gonna do, complain about it? No way.)

* * *

So, Galo maybe isn’t totally paying attention in Algebra.

Okay, Galo is not even a little bit paying attention in Algebra.

It’s not his fault! He was up late, okay, because it’s hard to keep track of pages when you listen to all your English homework on audiobooks so he lost track and accidentally got way ahead in _The Jungle._ (Which: gross. Gross gross gross. Galo is hard to gross out, and _gross._ ) The late-September sunshine is pouring in through the windows, leaving the desk warm under his fingers, and Mr. Canicus is kind of droning on and on and _on_ about the X-axis and like, division, and Galo is fiddling with an eraser in his pocket and watching the leaves move outside and wondering what’s going to be for lunch.

It’s not his name that pulls him out of it. It’s the sound of someone hissing, “ _Liiii-ooo._ ”

Galo sits up, blinking. This is a lot more attention than Lio himself is paying to the sound of his name: he’s sitting perfectly still, stiff-backed, eyes absolutely glued to his notebook. The sunlight glints off his piercings and the buttons of his jacket and the bright shimmery pink of the triangle on his back. Galo still has not once seen him without that jacket.

“Liiiooo,” someone hisses again. “Lio-Lio-Lio.” It’s Vulcan. Because of course it is.

“Lio-ooo. Lio. Lio! Hey, _Lio._ Lio. Lio. Lio.” The rest of the back row is joining in, now, making a low chorus that makes Galo think of the big serious sanders in shop class. And it’s not even Galo’s name. “Lio! Liooooo.”

This goes on for an example problem and half of another one before Lio finally whips around. Everyone falls silent, staring ahead like total angels. Lio’s glare passes down the row, hitting Galo with the same scorching contempt as everyone else, and then he twists back to the board.

Immediately: “Lio. _Lio._ Lio Lio Lio. Psssst, _Lio._ ” They are seriously not getting bored.

Mr. Canicus is on to the next example by the time Lio snaps his head around again. “ _What?”_ he snarls. “What do you want?”

“What?” Vulcan says, blinking innocently. “What’re you talking about?”

“Mr. Fotia,” Mr. Canicus says. “The board is up here, please. One more time and I’ll see you at lunch today.”

“Sorry, Mr. Canicus,” Lio bites out, sliding lower in his seat.

“Lio. Liooooliolio. _Lio._ ” Another minute scratches by before Lio snaps like a high-tension wire. His hair flares around his face as he turns.

“What. Do. You. _Want?_ ” he snarls, teeth bared. “Who’s hissing?”

“Nobody’s hissing,” Vulcan says. “You hear any hissing?” He looks around. “Anyone else hear any hissing?”

“I heard it,” Galo says, making direct eye contact with Vulcan. “Maybe our hearing is just better than yours.” He can feel his jaw sticking out, and frankly, good. Lio’s eyes go wide and startled for a second before —

“Mis- _ter_ Fotia, I have _warned_ you. That’ll be a lunch detention.”

“Yes, Mr. Canicus,” Lio says, turning very slowly back around. The back of his neck is a deep and simmering red, barely visible through the fall of his hair. Half the back row snickers. Galo is trying to glare a hole in the side of Vulcan’s head.

“Chill, dude,” Vulcan says, leaning closer to him. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?”

“What — I don’t have a problem, we’re just playing around.”

“He didn’t look like he was having fun,” Galo says, gripping his pencil a little too tight. If he snaps another one it’s going to be really stupid, this is his last one.

“He’s a fucking psycho, he gets worked up over everything,” Vulcan says, rolling his eyes. “He says the weirdest shit when he’s pissed. Where’s your sense of humor?”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Galo asks at the absolute top of his lungs. Every head in the classroom turns to stare at him.

“ _Mis_ -ter….” Mr. Canicus visibly checks his seating chart. “Mr. Thymos. Apparently I’ll be seeing you at lunch today as well.”

“Yessir,” Galo says, not caring even a little. Vulcan’s jaw is actually hanging open, which is kind of funny, but what really has Galo’s attention is Lio’s shocked astonished stare. His eyes are absolutely huge in his face. They’re such a strange color, this bright kind of purple-pink. Galo’s never seen anything like it.

* * *

Galo is not really a stranger to lunch detention; his academic career has featured a lot of the phrase _I’m really sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time._ He grabs his food and heads for the classroom, whistling. Lunch detention is honestly a lot better than after-school detention, and he knows Tialma’s not going to be mad about this one, not once he explains what happened.

He can hear Mr. Canicus talking, up ahead. “…have to ignore them. They’ll get bored and stop. If you could tell me who it was, that would be one thing, but I can’t just punish everyone who sits behind you, and you can’t act up in class like that.”

Galo can’t catch Lio’s reply, and whatever Mr. Canicus says after that is quieter. It seems kind of like crap, though, and besides, they didn’t seem like they were getting bored any time soon. At the same time, he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to have heard that.

“Reporting for duty!” he says loudly, saluting as he comes through the door. “Well, reporting for detention, anyway. Hi, Mr. Canicus, hi, Lio.”

“Hello, Galo,” Mr. Canicus says, which: cool, he knows Galo’s name now. (Galo’s already figured out he only does the Mister thing when you’re in trouble). “Well.” He stares at the two of them for a moment, then shakes his head. “Behave better, both of you. Don’t swear in class, don’t yell in class, don’t turn around and argue with the people behind you in class. Eat your lunch, and when you’re done, why don’t the two of you organize the textbooks, please?” He nods to the long shelves under the windows, which are piled high with stacks upon stacks of fray-edged, worn, and wilted math books. “Try and group them a bit by the condition they’re in, would you? Left to right, worst to best.”

“Yessir,” Galo says, and heads over for the stack. “Uh, also by what book they are, right?”

“Yes, Galo,” Mr. Canicus says, sighing. “Please sort them by what book they are. The order doesn’t matter there.”

“Cool, got it,” Galo says, shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth, and starts going through the nearest stack. They’ve gotten pretty badly mixed up by now. At the other end of the counter, Lio starts moving them around too, lips pursed. There’s a crumb-marked tray one one of the other desks; he must’ve eaten fast. Galo sets a deeply-tattered book on the Bad pile, picks up the next, and frowns.

“Uh, Mr. Canicus?” he says. “This one looks almost new except for how someone drew a giant dick on it.” It’s labeled _Leeron Sucks These_ with a big arrow pointing to it, because of course. Galo feels bad for Leeron, whoever he is.

There is a long, heavy sigh from Mr. Canicus’s desk.

“Turn it into a rocket,” Lio says. It’s the first thing he’s said since Galo walked in the door.

“It’s going to be a rocket with pubes,” Galo says regretfully, tilting the book up for general viewing. It’s a _detailed_ dick; there’s also foreskin. Someone put work into this, which — come on. “I mean, if I do it then it’s just going to be a blob I guess, so it might work out.”

“Please don’t draw on the books,” Mr. Canicus says. “Even to cover up a penis. Put it with the ones in poor shape, please, Galo.”

“All right, all right.” Galo glances over at Lio. “I thought it was a good idea.”

“Uh.” Lio blinks. “Thanks.”

They shelve in silence for a minute, or rather, they shelve to the sound of Galo whistling “Super Bass” to the best of his limited ability. He’s on the second chorus — _boy you got my heartbeat running away, beatin’ like a drum and it’s comin’ your way —_ when Lio says, “Hey.”

“Hey!” Galo says. “Oh, should I stop whistling?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Lio says. “What _was_ that, earlier?”

“Huh? What’d I do?”

“In class,” Lio says slowly. “When you got detention. This detention. That we’re in.”

“Oh.” Galo had genuinely stopped thinking about it. He shrugs, sliding another stack of books onto the battered end of the shelf. “Vulcan was being a jerk.”

“He does that,” Lio says. Galo nods.

“He was the one who kept talking to you,” Galo adds. “Well, he started it anyway.” Lio sighs.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised.” He runs his fingers over another textbook, not really looking at it. He’s kind of chewing on his lip a little. “Was that why? _”_ he finally bursts out, scowling down at the shelf like it’s offended him. Galo blinks.

“Uhhh…” Well, yes, obviously the answer is yes, but the last time Galo tried to help it’s not like it went super well. He _is_ capable of learning from experience. Sometimes. “He insulted my honor as a rescuer,” he says.

“Excuse me. Your _what?_ ”

“My honor as a rescuer,” Galo says. “Because he thought I’d be okay with him being a _giant jerk._ ”

“Do you rescue a lot of people?” Lio asks, but he sounds more amused than annoyed.

“Well, I’m gonna,” Galo says. “I’m going into the firefighters’ academy after I graduate. It’s part of why I do football, that and so Tialma doesn’t glue me to the ceiling.” He’s not sure this tracks to people who aren’t interested in firefighting, so he adds, “You need to be in really good shape.”

“Huh.” Lio eyes him speculatively, shelving books without really looking. It looks like he’s getting them pretty close to the right spots, though. “How did he insult your potential as a firefighter?” His voice is a low and steady deadpan, but Galo kind of thinks that Lio might be making fun of him a little bit. Or teasing him. He’s not sure which.

“Okay, he didn’t do that exactly,” Galo says. “But he was being a jerk —”

“— we’ve established that —”

“— and he said he thought I should be okay with that, which means he thought I was also a huge jerk, which is an insult. To me.”

“To your honor as a prospective firefighter,” Lio says, and he definitely sounds like he’s laughing at Galo now.

“Well, yeah? The duty of a firefighter is to save people. If you want to save people, why would you only do that when you’re working? And if you spend half the time saving people and the rest of the time going around hurting them, you’re not really making anything better, are you? You undermine everything! You don’t deserve to be a firefighter in the first place!”

Lio raises his eyebrows at that. They’re so pale that Galo can mostly tell because of the eyebrow ring. “That makes a surprising amount of sense,” he says.

“That’s because it’s true,” Galo says. “Hey, would you say this one is bad?” He holds up a book.

“Medium,” Lio says, glancing at it. “Put it in the middle.”

“Makes sense,” Galo concedes. “Hey, what —” He picks up another book and frowns at it. “This isn’t a math book?” The cover itself is so faded and scuffed that Galo can’t really make it what it’s supposed, which is unfortunately not that unusual in these stacks of books. But it’s definitely orange and the math books aren’t.

“Let me see.” Lio holds out a hand for it. His nails are painted black, Galo notices, and he’s wearing a bunch of bracelets — black leather, and a little silver chain, and a band of braided rainbow cord, just in case anybody missed his jacket probably. Now that’s dedication to both style and making a point. Cool, solid stuff.

“I want to look at it too,” Galo says, scooting the textbook along the counter between them. “What’s it from?”

“I’m looking,” Lio says, fanning through the pages far too fast to be able to read any of them. Like, Galo isn’t the fastest reader, but this isn’t even fast enough to see what’s on the page.

“ _How?_ ”

“Hold on a second,” Lio says, and stops at a band of bright red. “Freshman English.”

“What?”

“It’s the freshman English textbook,” Lio says, tapping the page. Galo cranes his neck over Lio’s shoulder; it looks like poems scattered across a whole broad spread. _Out of the night that covers me / black as the pit from pole to pole…_ and over on the other side, something that ends _I’ve heard it in the chillest land / And on the strangest Sea / Yet never — in Extremity, / it asked a crumb — of me._ And below that, one Galo actually recognizes: _My candle burns at both ends / it will not last the night / but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends —_ He can’t actually see the end of it past Lio’s finger, but he remembers: _it gives a lovely light!_ He spent a while trying to decide if he wanted to write a paper on that one, when he had to pick a poem and do that. It’s kind of cool, but also: _fire._ He’s so glad he lives after the invention of electricity, not that that doesn’t start enough fires on its own.

“How’d that get in here?” Galo says, and then, “Wait, how’d you know that?”

“I recognized it,” Lio says, looking at him like he’s not very smart. Galo is overall pretty used to this, and it’s better than Lio looking at him like he’s just shoved shit under Lio’s face.

“Ohhh,” Galo says, getting it, “you went looking for a page you recognized. That’s smart.” He pauses. “Don’t they usually have a title page though?”

Lio actually looks taken aback. “My copy didn’t,” he says. “I mean, it had been torn out. I didn’t think about it.”

“Whatever, it worked okay,” Galo says, shrugging. He tries to get a better look at the list of poems. “Unconquerable soul, that sounds pretty cool.”

“It’s a good poem.” Lio looks at him. “You’re…”

“Not as stupid as you thought?” Galo asks. “It’s cool, you can say it. I get that a lot.” He grins. “That was it, right?”

There’s a tiny smile on Lio’s face, Galo is almost sure. “More or less.”

“Hey! What are you boys looking at back there?” Mr. Canicus’s voice cuts through the moment.

“Solitaire going badly?” Lio mutters, and Galo has to work really really hard not to laugh.

“There’s a freshman English textbook back here, Mr. Canicus,” he explains, pointing at it as justification. “We were trying to figure out what it was, that’s all.”

“Hm.” He cranes his neck. “Is it someone’s from this year?”

Lio flips back to the inside cover, where there is indeed a title page. “No,” he reports. “It looks like it’s been here for a couple years.”

“Hrm. Well, bring it up, I’ll run it over to — who’s got freshman English this year, Mrs. Genesis?”

“Want me to do it?” Galo volunteers.

“No, finish your detention. And no chatting,” he adds, and then glances up at the clock. “Ah, forget it, it’s late enough. Go to lunch. Don’t disrupt my class again.”

“Yessir!” Galo snaps another salute and grabs the lunch trays. Lio follows, snagging his backpack out of the corner.

“That was nice of him!” Galo says, as the door swings shut.

“No, he wants to make a phone call,” Lio says. Galo frowns and glances over his shoulder. Yup, through the panel in the door he can see Mr. Canicus picking up the phone.

“Oh, hey, you’re right.”

“Cynicism wins again.”

“Huh?” Galo blinks. Lio shakes his head.

“Forget it.”

“Alright.” That’s pretty achievable. “I’m gonna go hang by the picnic tables!”

“…okay.” Lio shrugs and heads off down the hallway, apparently uninterested. Galo blinks.

“See you around!” he calls. Lio falters for a second, then waves over one shoulder, not turning back. Hey, it’s progress. The hall is mostly empty; he’s a very small figure, black and pink and green against the white.

Unconquerable soul. Why didn’t Galo get that kind of thing in _his_ freshman English?


	3. sing you to sleep in your bedroom speakers

That Saturday dawns clear and sunny — or rather, it might dawn however, but it’s clear and sunny when Galo stumbles down the stairs. (Once he was a morning person. Tialma says it’ll probably come back at some point. Galo kind of misses it, but right now, _no,_ nope, no way.)

“Hey there,” Tialma says, in the middle of loading up the dishwasher. Galo glances at the array of bowls and sniffs hopefully, but whatever it is, it hasn’t been cooking long enough to tell. “Whatcha making?”

“Authentic Mexican meatloaf,” Tialma says, which means: meatloaf. Galo blinks.

“Whoa, how late did I sleep?” Meatloaf is a dinner food.

“It’s about ten, I’m bringing it to a cookout later,” she says. “Nia from work invited me. And you, actually, but somehow I don’t think you want to spend your Saturday hanging out with a bunch of my friends.”

“I’m down!” Galo says, grabbing a box of cereal out of the cabinet. “Especially if there’s meatloaf.”

“When was the last time there was not leftover meatloaf in this fridge?”

“Uh, yesterday?” Galo says. “I ate it all on Thursday.”

“The amazing human vacuum,” she says, shaking her head. “Galito, child who I love, if you pour that cereal directly into your mouth like an animal I will break that box around your head and superglue a spoon to your hand.”

“Aw, Tialma,” Galo grumbles, guiltily lowering the cereal box to grab an actual bowl. “I don’t get why you want to do more dishes so bad.”

“First of all, we have a dishwasher, second, we’re not savages, third, we’re not having this argument again, eat your cereal like a human being while I have to watch you do it. You sure you want to come to the cookout? You might be the only person there between the ages of eight and thirty.”

“So I’ll play with the kids!” Galo says. “It’ll be fun. I’m the only person between eight and thirty _here,_ and there’s no hamburgers.”

“All right, kiddo,” she says, and reaches out to ruffle his hair. He hasn’t gelled it yet, so he lets her do it. “I’m gonna leave in an hour or so.”

“Cool. Can I drive?”

She laughs at that. “Sure, sure,” she says. “Is that the real reason you want to come?”

“Nah, I’d just run and get milk,” he says, grinning. He’s maybe been a little excited about finally getting his license. “I just want hamburgers and to teach some kids to play football.”

Sure enough, ninety minutes later Galo very carefully (and _very_ slowly and responsibly thank you Tialma) parks the car on the sidewalk, says hi to a full flock of middle-aged women half of whom are wearing orthopedic shoes, and starts guiding ten elementary schoolers through a backyard football game.

Of sorts.

“So,” he explains for the benefit of the newest kid, “she’s gonna be the quarterback, right? So she’s gonna count down and then say _hut,_ and then throw the ball to me, and then I’m gonna run for that tree right there and you’re all gonna try to tackle me, okay! And if you tackle me before I get past the tree, I don’t get any points and then it’s your turn and you get to try and win. Make sense?”

“Yeah, tackle you,” the kid says, nodding, and gives him a grin that’s going to be really ominous in like twenty years. “Got it.”

“Okay!” Galo says, and crouches. “Go ahead and count in,” he says to the quarterback, who has bright pink glasses and barrettes to match.

“Ready, set, _hut!_ ” she says, with enthusiasm at least, and then — turns around to throw him the ball, okay, maybe he left out a few points there, but it’s not a bad throw and he takes off for the tree, motions exaggerated and carefully slow.

“Oh, oh, _allll_ most there!” he yells over his shoulder, steering deliberately into the path of the littlest girl, who collides full-force with the side of his hip. Galo drops to his knees, carefully not on top of her, just in time for three more kids to hit his back at once, and he doesn’t even need to fake being driven gently into the grass. Someone else lands on his arm, tiny hands grab his foot, and Galo bursts out laughing.

“All right, all right, I’m down!” he says, prying his head up. “ _Great_ hit, great defense, you win, you’re the champions, yeah!”

“Yeah!” several of the kids yell, while the second grader sitting on the small of his back is clearly trying to decide if this means he can let Galo up now. The smallest girl is doing a frankly _amazing_ victory dance although it’s a little close to Galo’s fingers.

“Way to go, way to go,” he says, as they all start to disentangle themselves. “Okay, now we switch sides! Now you pick someone to run and all the rest of you have to jump on me so I can’t stop them, okay?”

“Got it!” most of the kids say, with serious nods, and Galo stands up from under the heap of children and makes immediate direct eye contact with Lio Fotia.

_Huh?_

“Uh,” Galo says. “Hi!”

Lio at least looks as surprised as Galo. “Hello,” he says, looking Galo over. There’s probably a lot of grass stains on his pants, and also his chest; he ditched his shirt immediately so at least _that_ would stay clean. Sometimes that’s just the cost of doing business.

“What, uh, what are you doing here?” Lio asks.

“I came with Tialma,” Galo explains, pointing towards the patio, where she’s gesturing with a massive glass of lemonade in exactly the way she always tells him not to do. “Wait, this is great, want to play with us?”

“I —” Lio says, looking slightly cornered, but anything else he has to say is immediately drowned out by a wave of childish enthusiasm. Galo didn’t really _mean_ to unleash that, but whoops, too late now.

“Cool,” Galo says. “Okay, this is great, here’s how it’s going to work, we need two teams now so it’s fair.” And they’re _not_ going to do any picking-teams bullshit, these kids don’t need that. “Uh, okay, everybody whose birthday is from January to June raise your hands?” Sweet, no weird clumps. “Cool, you’re on Lio’s team, the rest of you are on mine.”

“You realize I have no idea how to play football,” Lio says.

“She just beat me and she’s — how old are you?” Galo asks, looking to the smallest girl.

“Four and a half!”

“There you go, four and a half. I’ll talk you through it. We’re the receivers. One of your team will be the quarterback and throw you the ball, they know how, we just talked about it, then you run for the end zone. Which is that tree, and, uhhhhh…” They didn’t actually need two end zones before. “That bush with the purple flowers on the other end. You get the ball there, great, it’s a touchdown. If we get the ball to ours, same thing. Uh, a touchdown is —”

“I have been alive in the United States before,” Lio says.

“Okay, cool, so you know everything! Oh, you might want to take off your jacket. To keep it clean, not, like, as a political statement.”

“No, I’ll keep it on. It’s had worse on it,” Lio says, shrugging, and wow, Galo’s just going to hope that he got carsick or something and ignore that little flash of weird anger. “I’m not sure these teams are fair, but all right.”

“You get first down,” Galo says, handing the ball off to one of Lio’s tiny team. “Okay, and —”

“HUT!” the kid yells, skipping all intervening steps, and chucks the ball properly through his legs and directly at Lio’s face. Lio catches it with more dexterity than Galo really expected given his reluctance, and takes off running for the far end. Galo follows amid a swath of team-ambivalent children, most of them just running to run.

“Oh, oh, you’re catching up to him,” Galo yells — Lio’s actually running pretty all-out right now. “Oh, he’s getting away but you’re getting closer, _I’m sure you’re going to catch him in a second —_ ” and there, Lio gets it. He doesn’t slow down at all, but he does start winding in a slow serpentine back and forth across the grass, until four kids tackle him from four separate directions. He executes an impressive kind of fucked-up somersault to not land on any of them. It looks cool but also like he did not know he was going to do it and he’s going to feel it later.

“ _Nice,_ everybody,” Galo says, “awesome, good game. Okay, now my turn —”

“At this rate,” Lio murmurs, passing him, “we’re going to end at a tie of zero.”

“That’s fine,” Galo says, “they’re having a great time.”

They get through another four sort-of-downs before someone yells “Burgers are ready!” and the football game is immediately abandoned in a mass stampede. Galo joins the end of the line — normally he’d run, but come on, they’re little kids.

“So,” Lio says, falling into line behind him. “Who’s Tialma?”

“Oh. Alma,” Galo says, nodding in her direction. “Or Ms. Pérez, I guess. I just call her that. It was supposed to be Tía Alma but I was pretty little and I hadn’t heard anyone call anyone _tía_ before, so I just thought that was her name, and then it kind of stuck.”

“Huh. All right,” Lio says slowly, reaching past him for a paper plate. Galo grabs one too too, carefully double-layering it — he’s planning to get a _lot_ of food. “I thought your last name was Thymos?”

“It is,” Galo says. “Galo Pérez Thymos.” And then, since Lio still looks like he’s trying not to look confused, explains: “She adopted me last year. I kept my last name because I’m the last Thymos we know about, and she understood, but I love her, so she’s my middle name now.”

“Ah,” Lio says, reaching past Galo for a hot dog. Galo snags one _and_ a cheeseburger, because he’s hungry. “So, have you not lived with her for very long?”

“Oh, nah, I’ve been with her since I was twelve,” Galo says, moving on to what appears to be a vat of potato salad. Sure. “We just got the adoption finalized, though.” That was a really good day. They both kind of cried a little.

“I see,” Lio says thoughtfully, and wrinkles his nose at the heap of potato salad. Whatever, more for Galo.

“So what are you doing here?” Galo asks. Because seriously: not where he expected to see Lio Fotia. Not like Galo minds, but still. “Try some of the meatloaf, Tialma made it.”

“If you say so.” He snags a slice. “My mom’s going to drop me off at band practice afterward.”

Galo makes a mental note that Lio might not be able to drive. Maybe he skipped a grade or something? More importantly: “Wait, you’re in a _band_? That’s so cool! What’s the name? What do you play?”

Lio blinks, slow and startled. “Mad Burnish,” he says, and Galo gives an impressed whistle. “I’m lead guitar and I sing.”

“ _Awesome,_ ” Galo says. “Do you have shows? Can I come see one? Or like, do you have CDs?”

“No, we don’t,” Lio says. “We’re just starting.” He bites his lip, adding a handful of chips to his plate. “You really want to hear us?”

“Yeah!” Galo says. “I don’t know anyone else in a band. Wait, I know Aina, she’s in marching band, but that’s different.”

“Very,” Lio says darkly. He drums his fingers on the side of the table and fixes his gaze somewhere past Galo’s face. “You can come with me to practice after, if you really want to. But I _will_ kick you out if I have to.”

“Wait, seriously? _Sweet._ I’ll be the best audience ever,” Galo promises. “Who else is in it? Anybody I know?”

“I doubt it,” Lio says. “Meis and Gueira, they graduated last year. They’re studying at Promepolis Community for the first two years.”

“Cool, it’ll be fun to meet them,” Galo says. “Hey, what do you think this is?” He points at a heap of quivering translucent green.

“Jello salad,” Lio says. “It’s disgusting, don’t eat it.”

“It looks _gross,_ ” Galo says, and adds a spoonful to his plate. He catches Lio staring at him: “What? I gotta know now, don’t I?”

“Hey, Lio,” a crisply British voice says behind them, while Lio is still busy staring at him incredulously. “Do I get to meet your friend?”

“Hi!” Galo says, turning around to find a woman the same height as Lio with… some of the coolest hair Galo has ever seen, actually. It’s streaks of pale blond and green and silver, all bound together into one long braid that drapes over her shoulder. Her eyes are a clear gray, not the strange purple-pink that Lio has. “I’m Galo Pérez Thymos,” he says.

“Oh, you’re Alma’s boy!” she says, holding out a hand. “Dian Fotia. Just Dian is fine.” She hits the emphasis hard on the first syllable. “It’s good to meet you, she’s told me a bit about you.”

“Nice to meet you too!” Galo says. “Are you Lio’s mom? He’s really cool.” Lio chokes slightly on a potato chip. “Whoa, careful.”

“I’m fine,” Lio says, a little raspily. “Mom, Galo’s coming with us to practice later.” Dian Fotia’s eyebrows go up for a second, and wow, she looks a _lot_ like her son.

“I _see,_ ” she says. “Well, glad to have you. We’re going to head out around two. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I see a hamburger with my name on it.”

“Try the meatloaf!” Galo calls after her, and lets the general motion of the crowd carry him and Lio further from the table. “Hey,” he says to Lio. “Did you and your mom dye your hair the same color?”

He’s just asking because he thinks it’s cool, but Lio flushes a deep luminescent pink from his throat right to his hairline. “I stole her hair dye,” he mumbles, gaze fixed firmly on the ground. “That’s all.”

“Okay?” Galo says. “It looks sweet! I’ve never dyed my hair.” He tugs on one of his deep blue-black spikes thoughtfully. Tialma gets her hair done at a salon, not in the house. “What’s it like?”

“Dyeing your hair? Like rubbing a bunch of fruit-scented paint into your hair,” Lio says.

“What, that’s it? Huh.”

“Not for you,” Lio says, eying his hair appraisingly. “You’d need to bleach it. Mine’s very light.”

“Huh.” Galo rubs at the side of his undercut. “What color would look badass?”

“Hm.” Lio is clearly thinking about it, which Galo appreciates. “Maybe red. Or a dark blue.”

“It’s kind of blueish already,” Galo says. “Hey, maybe that means dark blue would just make it _more_ badass!”

“You think it’s badass as it is, then?” Lio says, managing to say it very calmly and yet make Galo feel deeply insulted.

“Of _course_ it’s badass,” he says. “Look at these spikes.”

“They’re impressive,” Lio says. “I’m surprised you fit through doorways.”

“I have to duck sometimes,” Galo says. “I might have to cut it after I graduate, though. Or at least once I start wearing a helmet all the time.”

“All the more reason to dye it now,” Lio says. “While you still have time.”

“Good point. Hey, try Tialma’s meatloaf already.”

“I don’t even like meatloaf.” But Lio does stab his plastic fork into it.

“You’re going to like this meatloaf,” Galo assures him. “She keeps trying to teach me to make it but it’s never as good.”

“Mmm.” Lio chews. “Better than I expected.”

“I told you!” Galo says triumphantly. Lio actually laughs, a little.

“Hey Galo!” One of the kids waves at them. “Hey Lio! Can we play more football?”

“After we finish eating!” Galo promises, gesturing at his hamburger.

“Thank you for volunteering me,” Lio mutters. Galo winces.

“Oh, sorry! I just — they’re having a lot of fun, it’s not really hard —”

“I’ll forgive you,” Lio says magnanimously, with a showy sigh. “This once.”

“That’s cool, it’s probably the last cookout of the summer anyway,” Galo says, and isn’t entirely sure why this makes Lio shake his head and laugh.

Football carries them through the rest of the barbecue until Dian’s ready to leave, and they spend the short drive chatting amiably: Dian has questions about what Galo thinks of the new school and what it’s like on the football team, and then his plans for the firefighters’ academy come up and she turns out actually to be interested, so he gets to explain some history stuff that gets into Edo period Japan ( which is always one of his favorites because it feels like _his._ ) Then he gets onto the time in England when firefighters belonged to insurance companies and only protected certain buildings, which is one of those things that pisses Galo off even though it was hundreds of years ago, because like — come _on!_ If a building is on fire, if people are getting hurt or dying, why would you ever stop to wonder who had given who money? How is that what matters in the moment? How do you have everything you need to help _right there_ and just plain decide that it isn’t your problem? What was wrong with them?

“Sound philosophy,” Dian says, smiling, once Galo remembers that he’s kind of going on about this and he should maybe take a couple breaths about it. “Well, I’ll certainly feel safer with you on the force.”

“ _Mom,_ ” Lio mumbles from the back seat (apparently in the Fotia house, guest gets shotgun, at least when the back seat is half taken up by a guitar case and a cooler that Galo is pretty sure you could fit either Fotia into). Galo ignores this muttering completely and says, “Thanks!” beaming with delight.

“Well,” she says, pulling up in front of a long ranch house with three doors, “here we are. Text me when you’re done, hey? I can drive you home too, Galo, I said to Alma,” she adds.

“Cool, thank you!” Galo says, nodding, and bounces out of his seat. “Great to meet you, Miz Fotia.”

“Dian,” she says, laughing. “Don’t make me tell you again. Have fun, you two. No cocaine, no Satanism.”

“ _Mom._ ”

“ _Lio,_ ” she retorts, mimicking his tone perfectly. Galo tries not to laugh, because it seems like Lio would be annoyed, but wow. He’s starting to think she’s as cool as her son. “See you later.”

Lio slows on the way up the walk. “Be cool,” he says, voice low and warning. Before Galo can ask what he means and when exactly Galo’s ever _not_ been cool anyway, Lio is already leaning on the doorbell. A second later the door swings open to reveal a guy with the longest hair Galo’s ever seen, a deep blue-black that might be dyed or might be just that color in the same way Galo’s is. “Hey, Lio,” he says, smiling, and behind him someone yells, “Kid!”

“Ah, shut up,” Lio says, elbowing his way in with a smile. “I brought someone, his name’s Galo. He wanted to hear us play.”

“Hi!” Galo says, following him in. The place smells like incense, cigarettes, Febreeze, and weed, which is an awful lot of fire-related smells, but he did promise to be cool about this. A guy with a wild shock of dyed-red hair is currently giving Lio an enthusiastic fist-bump, while the long-haired guy is giving Galo a steadily appraising look.

“I don’t remember seeing you before,” he says. “New around here?”

“Just moved out here from Promepolis,” Galo explains. “What’s your name?”

“Meis,” he says, nudging the door shut behind Galo. “That’s Gueira. And there’s popcorn on the coffee table.”

“Sweet!” _Coffee table_ is kind of a generous term, it’s a plastic box with three mugs and the popcorn bowl all sitting on top of it, but Galo sees no reason to nitpick about this. He kicks off his shoes and drops onto the folded futon as Gueira and Lio start doing something with an amp.

“Lio hasn’t mentioned you,” Meis remarks, leaning on the back of the futon. He’s _tall,_ taller even than Galo, which not a lot of people are anymore. (It’s kind of weird. He smacks his head a lot lately.)

“Ouch,” Galo says, frowning. “Hey, Lio, how come you didn’t mention me?”

“I haven’t been over here in three weeks,” Lio says, slightly muffled because he’s halfway under a desk trying to plug a cord in. This is apparently a practiced procedure because they’ve been here, like, three seconds. “Besides, you’re not that interesting.”

“Hey!”

Gueira laughs, and stands up to dig something out of a desk drawer which turns out to be a pair of drumsticks. There’s a full drum kit in a corner of the room, scuffed-up but clearly legit. Galo wonders if they’re going to dive straight in, but Gueira just stuffs the drumsticks in his back pocket and says, “I’m gonna grab some soda. You want anything, Galo?”

“Sprite if you’ve got it?” Galo asks.

“Think we do.” The place is kind of small, so Gueira doesn’t so much _go_ get some soda as take two steps and toss Galo a can. (Gently.) “Here, babe.” He passes Meis a can of Coke, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, and: _oh._ Oh, this is probably what Lio’s warning on the step was about, okay. Which: not helpful, Lio, because now Galo is thinking about being cool about this which means he’s thinking about how he’s supposed to react to this, which means he has no idea what his face is doing and now he’s worried about it, which is _really not helpful_ for coming off normal, and at this point Galo decides to take care of the face issue and shoves as much popcorn in his mouth as possible.

“Holy shit, are you a pelican,” Gueira says. Oops.

“Orrreee,” Galo gets out, swallows with a tremendous effort, and tries again: “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Meis says, uncapping the Coke. “He’s just impressed.”

“Yeah, it’s like fifty cents a package, we got a whole thing at Costco,” Gueira says. “Damn, I thought I could eat fast.”

“And we just came from a cookout, too,” Lio says, finally emerging from under the desk with his face deeply flushed; apparently he was pretty damn near upside down. “Hey, how’d your calc test go?”

This is apparently directed at Meis, who shrugs. “Decent,” he says.

“Ninety-two,” Gueira translates this, and Galo does a rapid reassessment of Meis. A ninety-two on a math test is at _least_ an ice cream night, at his house. “What happened with that first paper?”

“What I expected,” Lio says, mouth turning into a thin line.

“I can’t _believe_ you got that fucker Foresight _again_ ,” Gueira says. “Like, come on.”

“Hey!” Galo says. “What’s wrong with Coach Kray?”

There is an abrupt and deeply weird stillness, in which Galo realizes that Gueira and Meis are both looking at Lio. Lio only shakes his head, one quick sharp jerk of his chin.

“Forget it,” he says. “Come on, let’s get playing. Get tuned and start with ‘Don’t You Know’?” He slings his guitar over his head; apparently there’s no mic. Gueira heads for the drum kit; Meis chugs what looks like half his Coke and reaches for the bass.

“Did one of you guys write that?” Galo asks.

“No, it’s a cover,” Lio says, over the sound of tuning his guitar. “’Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?’ It’s by Fall Out Boy.”

“Do I know them?” Galo asks, which leads to another, much less tense exchange of looks.

“Probably,” Lio says. “If you listen to the radio. They’re — _we’re going down, down, in a dadadada, and sugar we’re goin’ down swingin’…_ ”

“Oh, yeah, that one!” Galo does, in fact. “ _We’re always sleeping in and sleeping for the wrong team…_ yeah, sorry, I can’t sing at all.” Especially not after Lio, whose voice is actually really nice, deep and rich and kind of husky.

“Right song, though,” Gueira says.

“What _do_ you listen to?” Lio asks, still fiddling with his strings. “We might be able to play some of it.” There’s a short cough from Meis’s direction. “Some, I said.”

“Uh, stuff?” Galo says. “The radio a lot, I don’t know. Top 40, I guess. Uh, and a lot of old rock? Can you do, like, Bohemian Rhapsody?” It’s been stuck in his head.

“Only if you kick him in the balls first,” Gueira says, nodding at Lio. Galo blinks.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Queen?”

“Nothing,” Lio says, at the same time as Meis says, “We like Queen as much as any house of self-respecting faggots.” Galo snorts, which hopefully he’s like, allowed to do.

“I can’t get my voice that high,” Lio explains. “At least not without Gueira’s idea, and I’ll pass on that one.”

“Not like you’re using them for anything,” Meis says.

“No one likes a smug couple,” Lio retorts.

“I’m not doing anything!” Gueira chimes in.

“Guilt by association,” Lio says, rolling his eyes. He looks different like this, somehow, and Galo doesn’t want to stare or anything but he kind of wants to pin it down. It’s something about how Lio moves, something in the line of his shoulders as he tunes his guitar. There’s an ease to him that wasn’t there even at the barbecue, never mind at school. Not even close.

It occurs to Galo, belatedly, that he’s the only straight guy in the room, right now. In the whole house, if there isn’t another roommate home, or that roommate is also not a straight guy. It’s not like it bugs him or anything, they seem cool and that’s what matters; it’s just that he can see how that might be… relaxing, somehow, for someone like Lio. Especially for someone like Lio, who never lets anyone forget who he is. In here he’s the normal one, and he doesn’t have to give anything up to be normal either.

It’s kind of nice. Or rather, it must be, for Lio.

“I think I’m set,” Lio says. “Meis?”

“Ready.”

“All right. Gueira, count us in.”

“One, two, three, four…”

There’s an interlude that’s all Meis and the drums, something quick from Lio’s guitar, and then: _“Penny for your thoughts, but a dollar for your insides…”_

Galo’s never watched a band up close before, not like this. Gueira’s head bobs with every drumbeat, hair bouncing in time with the music, while Meis is motionless except for his fingers and keeps his gaze fixed on the middle distance. And Lio — Lio has his face screwed up in focus as his fingers dance over the strings. His teeth dig into his lip between lines, his tongue flicking lightning-quick over his mouth while he has the chance. He’s looking somewhere past Galo like he’s seeing something that Galo can’t see, that nobody else can except maybe for Gueira and Meis. His voice is maybe a little lost in the instruments, but they’re close enough Galo can still hear: “ _They say quitters never win, but we walk the plank on a sinking ship, there’s a world outside of my front door that gets off on being damned…”_

He sings it with an exhausted twist to his mouth, sings it with a kind of grief echoing through the words like a second singer, and that’s — this is a really sad song, actually! Gueira’s still quick and cheerful on the drums, and the guitar and base are a surging eager presence under Lio’s voice like this is something to dance to, but this is _really sad._ This is like someone dancing along the edge of giving up on something, and Galo’s not really sure what.

It does sound good, though; it sounds like a real song, and sounds a hell of a lot better than anything Galo can do with an instrument. It feels like the sound of it is getting into his blood, like he can feel the beat somewhere in his bones, with Lio’s voice holding it all together.

He applauds when they’re done, enthusiastic and loud. All three laugh, Lio shoving his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll take it,” he says, but there’s a small, proud smile on his mouth and a faint pinkness to his cheeks. “All right, what else? Do we want to learn ‘The Shipped Gold Standard’?’”

Gueira look at Meis. Meis looks at Gueira. Both of their mouths do something squinched and disapproving.

“All right, we won’t,” Lio says, sighing. “I still think time’s going to bear me out on this one. Okay, let’s do ‘Famous Last Words.’”

“Got it,” Gueira says, Meis nodding too, and Galo realizes something else, looking between the three of them: Lio is the leader, here. They make fun of him and he’s the youngest, but if he really wanted them to learn that song, they’d do it. Even though they clearly don’t like it.

Gueira’s counting before Galo can ask anything about it, not that he’s sure what to ask; and then they launch into it, Lio sending his voice out angry and loud with the very first chord. Galo likes this one better immediately; it’s got more rage than he’d usually like, but it’s defiant and brutally edged, and Lio’s eyes spark as he snaps out, “ _I am not afraid to keep on living…_ ”

Yeah, Galo likes this one a lot better.

They cycle through a bunch more songs, most of them angry and loud and unfamiliar, but Galo thinks he could get to like a lot of them. They all seem to be covers, but that makes sense; writing a song seems hard. Not that anything they’re doing looks easy.

“All right, break,” Lio says at last, and slings his guitar over his head. “I’m gonna —” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the open bathroom door. Meis drops to a seat on the couch, while Gueira spins his sticks in his hands and then jams them both into his hair. They stay there, which is impressive.

“So,” Meis says, the second Lio is gone, and leans forward to brace himself on his own upturned knee. “How’s he doing without us?”

“Uh.” Okay, not a question Galo expected. “You mean like at school?”

“Yeah,” Gueira says, coming to lean on the back of the couch. “Now that we’re not there to watch his back.”

“We weren’t out the way he is,” Meis says, tapping his fingers against his knee. “We didn’t make a point of it. But we were there.”

“Yeah.” Gueira nods, grin flashing over his face. “Lio really believes in — change. Trolling the hell out of bigots. All that shit.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Galo says, thinking about the jacket and the defiant defensive set of Lio’s shoulders. “I think it’s badass.”

“Oh, it is,” Meis says. “But it’s not easy.”

“I think I know what you mean.” Galo chews on his lip. “Like, he doesn’t tell me? I don’t think he likes me getting involved with his stuff. And he’s tough,” he adds, which is a little stupid because they probably know that even better than he does. “Really tough. So I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I tried to get Vulcan off his dick on Friday, I don’t know if it worked. I mean — to stop bugging him.”

“Calm down, hotshot, we say get off my dick too,” Gueira says, rolling his eyes. “Just — look out for him, hey?”

“It’s not that we think he can’t do it alone,” Meis says. “It’s that we think he shouldn’t have to.”

“Okay.” Galo nods, solemn and slow; it feels like it needs more, so he sets his hand over his heart. “I’ll do my best.”

“What am I missing out here?” Lio asks, from behind them. Galo kind of jumps, but Gueira just laughs.

“We’re bullying your pet jock,” he says, and Galo squawks at the same time as Lio rolls his eyes.

“He can handle himself,” he says, grabbing his guitar. “Come on, let’s get back in it.”

* * *

That night, Galo drops his math homework on the coffee table and then heads for the computer to pull up Limewire. It takes a little bit of searching before he finds Fall Out Boy stuff, but it’s there. Today made him curious, and Lio didn’t mention the names of any of the other bands they were covering, or if he did Galo didn’t remember them. He downloads a bunch of stufft, hits play on the first song to get finished, and flips open his math book. He needs music to get anything done anyway, so hey, multitasking!

Half an hour later his homework is about a quarter done, he’s listened to a bunch of songs, and he’s decided: he doesn’t like this band.

It’s not like any of the songs sound _bad_ or anything; it’s good, pump-you-up stuff. But the lyrics, when he can understand what the guy’s saying, are all sharp-edged and slippery: the words twist and flip over on themselves and Galo’s never been smart enough for that, or even really wanted to be. It’s like the singer can’t say what he means unless he makes it confusing first. And it’s all so _angry,_ and so bitter, and it seems like the more sense the lyric makes, the more despairing it’s going to sound. _I’ve loved everything about you that hurts. I want to scream ‘I love you’ from the top of my lungs, but I’m afraid that someone else will hear me. Love never wanted me, but I took it anyway._ And the guy hates himself so, so much, even when he’s bragging about how great the band is.

It’s just a bummer.

Galo flops back on the carpet and chews on his pencil as the guitar rolls over him, and thinks about the look on Lio’s face as he played, like the music was taking him somewhere nobody just watching could go. Like he needed it.

Galo tries to remember if he’s ever seen Lio at school without at least one earbud in. Maybe that first day.

 _And all of the mothers raise their babies to stay away from me,_ echoes through the room.

“You okay, kiddo?” Tialma asks, passing through with a mug in her hand. Galo sighs, gnawing on his eraser.

“Yeah,” he says. Tialma frowns, and reaches over to turn down the volume.

“What’s up?” she says. “Having trouble?”

“Nah, it’s all the same thing tonight,” Galo says. “Tialma, why do you think people are such jerks?”

“Do I need to set somebody straight?” Tialma asks, dropping onto the desk chair. “Was it those college kids from today?”

“What? No!” Galo says, dropping the pencil out of his mouth and almost stabbing himself in the chest. “No, they were really cool. Just… I don’t know, I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t,” she says, sighing. “I guess it’s just because they can, or because it’s easy, or because they’re not paying attention.”

“Not that last one,” Galo says. “I mean, yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Mmm.” She nudges him gently in the ribs with her foot. “Hey. Galito. You can tell me if something’s going on, you know that, right? Whether or not you want me to do anything about it. If you want, I can just listen, and hold off on everything else. Or I can turn someone into my next meatloaf, you know, whatever works.”

“Thanks,” he says, laughing a little. “Nah, it’s just…” He shrugs. “So Lio and I are friends now, and I think he’s angry a lot. And sad. People are jerks to him, he’s not a jerk,” he adds in hurried clarification.

“Ahh,” she says. “Well. If he’s got you, that’s got to improve things, right?”

“Yup,” Galo says, rallied by this. “I’ll make sure it does.”

“So there you go, then,” she says. “All you can do. Hey, is Lio the kid you thought didn’t like you?”

“Yeah,” Galo says. “I mean, I still think he didn’t back then, but we talked more.”

“See, what’d I tell you,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he says, and hauls himself up till he’s sitting again. “Next question, why do I have to do math?”

“’Cause the world is cruel,” she says. “C’mon, it’s for the firefighters’ academy.”

“I know!” he protests. “I’m gonna _do_ it. I just don’t wanna.”

“Can’t argue with that,” she laughs, and Galo sighs and re-applies himself to the necessities of algebra.


	4. know that I could use somebody

On Monday the hallway is the same clattering gray-green tile as always, and Galo is humming one of Lio’s songs. (Well, not Lio’s songs, but whatever. The ones his band played.) _Come one come all you’re just in time to witness my first breakdown, cause there’s a mile gone for every minute past when I’m stuck in this town…_ Kind of a weird fit when Galo’s in a good mood, but he likes the guitar, and it’s also really thoroughly stuck in his head.

He’s digging his books out of his locker when he spots Lio. “Hi!” he calls, waving, and then, because Lio has his earbuds in as usual, “LIO, HI!”

Lio’s head jerks up lightning-quick, snapping back and forth; then he spots Galo and nods at him, jogging over. “Hi,” he says, “what’s up?” He doesn’t say it like a greeting; he sounds concerned, keeps his voice low.

“Just saying hi,” Galo says, digging his math book out of his locker. Lio blinks at him, and then blinks at the book.

“It’s only second period,” he says. “Why are you getting that?”

“I have shop class, it’s right by Algebra and I don’t want to come back here,” Galo says, shoving his half-dislodged backpack back in the locker. There’s an ominous Dorito-y crunch which Galo chooses to ignore. “Hey, you have something in your hair.” It’s a little white thing; Galo’s not sure what.

“What?” Lio combs his fingers through the strands of green, dislodging whatever-it-was. “Oh, yeah. People were throwing little balls of paper at me, that must be what it is.”

“Jeez, that sucks.” Galo scowls. “Who was it? Was it Vulcan?”

“He’s not in my chem class, so I doubt it,” Lio says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know who it was, probably a couple of people. At least it’s not spitballs.”

“Ew! Do people _do_ that?”

“Only on television, at least so far.” Lio shrugs with horrible nonchalance. “So you’re in shop class?”

“Yeah, it seems handy. Plus we get to use the table saws later in the year.” Galo lets himself be redirected, since Lio clearly doesn’t want to talk about this, and starts checking the pockets of his bag for pencils. “What do you have next?”

Lio grimaces; it makes the light glint off his eyebrow ring. “History with Foresight.”

“What’s your problem with Coach Kray?” Galo asks, pausing. “He’s a great guy.”

“Maybe to you.” Lio sounds — not like he did when they first talked, not that icy, but definitely a few degrees colder. “You’re on the football team. That makes you the right kind of people, to him.”

“Nuh-uh, shows what you know.” Galo goes back to digging through his bag and unearths a battered stub of a pencil, which, good enough. “I’ve known him since I was eight, and he was always nice to me.”

“Huh.” Lio purses his lips. “How’s that?”

“It’s ‘cause I spent a lot of time at the PYC — the Promepolis Youth Center — when I was a kid, especially when I was bouncing around before Tialma. He volunteers there a bunch, and he was always nice to me! And I was just a scrawny little kid back then, so it’s not like I was special or anything. Just ‘cause he’s a great guy. You can look it up, there’s pictures in the newspaper and stuff.”

“Huh,” Lio says, frowning.

“Yeah. He’s really cool, you should give him a chance!”

“Well,” Lio says, and shrugs one shoulder, not quite meeting Galo’s eyes. “He’s not going to give _me_ a chance if I’m late, so I’d better go.” He shoves off the lockers and turns away, boots thudding on the tile. Galo watches him go, skin prickling at the back of his neck. They’d been getting along better! He’d thought they were friends now!

Maybe it’s just a mood? It’s not even second period and people have been being dicks to Lio already. It’d make sense for him to be bummed out in general, nothing to do with Galo at all. And Coach Kray does care a lot about being on time, that part’s true. So everything’s fine, probably.

* * *

Lio skitters into their shared algebra class about two seconds before the bell, so he doesn’t look at Galo then but that doesn’t necessarily, like, say a lot. Someone says something that sends a low mean laugh echoing down the back row, but Lio ignores it and Galo can’t hear what got said at all. Halfway through the period, Vulcan gets up to sharpen his pencil and whispers something as he passes Lio’s desk, and Lio’s shoulders twitch. But that’s all anyone does, this class.

(There’s a kind of math going on here that has nothing to do with algebra and Galo does _not_ like it.)

Lio lingers after the bell rings, though, and falls into step beside Galo on the way out the door. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey!” Galo beams; Lio laughs a little, just a silent quirk of lips.

“Want to come over to mine later?” he asks. “We can do homework, hang out for a while.” He shrugs one shoulder, as if in apology for the lack of detailed plans, but Galo’s already feeling his grin stretch even wider.

“Sounds great, dude!” he says. “Hey, I have the car today cause it’s Tialma’s day off, want to just meet me at the parking lot?”

“Nice,” Lio says, in proper appreciation for the ability to avoid the bus. “See you there.” He splits off down another hallway with a quick nod, and Galo bounces off towards Chemistry class, whistling as he goes. He spends most of the day whistling, actually; Ignis even comments on it, but like, nicely.

When he gets out to the parking lot after school, Lio is already there, squinting against the bright afternoon sun. “I have no idea which car is yours,” he says.

“Over here.” It’s gray, scuffed, and Tialma expects it to outlive all of them. Cars remind him of driving, obviously, and he asks: “Hey, did you skip a grade?”

Lio actually stops walking. “What?” he demands.

“I was just wondering!”

“I’m _just short,_ ” Lio says, rolling his eyes. He looks no worse than exasperated, though; it’s the warm annoyance he aimed at Gueira and Meis, not the simmering rage that Galo sees in class. “You’ve met my mother, you’ve seen how small she is.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Galo protests, getting the door open. “I was just wondering because it seems like you don’t drive!”

“Oh.” Lio slinks into the car, ears reddening. “No, I didn’t skip a grade.” Mumbling, he adds, “I failed my driver’s test. A… a couple of times.” He slides down the seat a bit. “Apparently I go too fast around corners.”

“That’s fair, it’s fun,” Galo says. “Tialma didn’t say it or anything but I think she was kind of surprised I passed the first time.” He maybe likes speed. “You can mess with the radio if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Thanks.” Lio leans forward, studies it for a moment, clearly has a brief bit of trouble with the buttons, produces a horrible squawk of static, and finally gets an actual station. “This’ll do.”

“Oh, yeah, I know some of this stuff!” It’s classic rock, good pump-you-up stuff. _Can I take you to the movies, can I take you to the show…_ “Do you ever play any of this?”

“Zeppelin? I’m not _that_ good.”

“You sounded great to me,” Galo assures him, which makes Lio’s ears turn pink, just visible out of the corner of Galo’s eye. It’s kind of cute.

“So,” Galo says, turning onto the main road, “I have no idea where your house is?”

“Seriously?” Lio covers his face with his hand, but Galo thinks he can hear a faint laugh slip past his fingers. “You couldn’t bring this up _before_ we got out of the parking lot?”

“Hey, neither did you!” Galo says, unbothered. “Anyway, there’s two directions, I had a fifty-fifty shot of getting it right. Which way from here?”

“You did get lucky,” Lio says, rolling his eyes. “Okay, left up here…”

It’s not too far or too much trouble to find Lio’s house, which is a nice one: white clapboard and pink shutters, and a gray stone chimney trailing sweet woodsmoke across the sky. (Galo doesn’t exactly _like_ fireplaces, but they only cause like seven percent of actual house fires, so whatever. Cooking is actually way worse.)

“Hey,” Lio grunts, opening the door. His mom is at the worn white kitchen table, laptop open next to a pile of envelopes. Galo waves frantically.

“Hi, Miz Dian!”

“Hey, Galo,” she says, smiling at them both. “Hey, Lio. We’ve got juice and soda in the fridge and I think there’s some chips that Lio hasn’t found yet.”

“Mom, please,” Lio sighs, and — whoa, okay, Lio’s shucking off his jacket, slinging it on a hook by the door. Which. Makes perfect sense, it’s his _house,_ and it’s nice and warm in here with the fire crackling and everything. There’s no reason he’d wear a jacket in the house, why would he? It’s just — Galo’s literally never seen him without it, that’s all. It makes him look smaller, slighter; his shoulder blades show through his T-shirt, just a little. He has more muscle in his forearms than Galo expected, though, standing out sharp under the pale un-suntouched stretch of his skin. There’s a tiny mole on the left of his throat that’s been hidden by the jacket collar until now.

It’s just a jacket. But it’s hard not to feel like Galo’s seeing something something that he shouldn’t, or at least, something that most people don’t get to see.

“Come on, this way,” Lio says, jerking his head at a nearby door, and Galo follows with absolutely no idea where they’re going.

It turns out to be a TV room in the basement, with a denim couch and gray-blue walls. Lio plops himself down on the floor immediately, digging papers out of his backpack. “You can use the desk if you want,” he says, jerking his head towards a table in the corner, where a desktop squats amid piles of paper, pencils, a printer, and random thingamabobs. “I never sit there, there’s no room. If you need the computer for anything, that’s fine, there’s no password.”

“Cool.” Galo thumps into the computer chair and gives it a quick spin. Nice, smooth, and it’s comfy too. “I like your house.”

Lio looks a little surprised by that. “Thanks,” he says.

Galo digs his earbuds out of his pocket, since homework needs homework music. Lio wears his own all the time, hopefully he won’t mind. Though he’s not wearing them now; Galo glances over just to check, even though that’s kind of silly. Lio’s all in black; without the jacket, the wire would stand out against his clothes like one of those commercials. Super obvious.

Galo leaves one earbud out, just to be friendly. This makes it easy to hear, a few minutes later, when Lio makes a low noise of exasperation.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Punnett squares.” Lio flaps a worksheet indignantly. “Ugh.”

“Wait, are you not in Chemistry?”

“Oh, that too,” Lio says. “I had to retake freshman civics and it screwed up my schedule for the rest of high school, apparently.”

“How’s that work?”

“It doesn’t,” Lio says, sighing. “Anyway, I’m supposed to figure out what color eyes my children would have if I had kids with this particular person somehow.”

“Oh! And it bugs you because you don’t want kids?”

“What? No. I’m annoyed because there’s a list of what is and isn’t dominant but it doesn’t cover _incomplete albinisim,_ which is what I have.”

Galo blinks. “Oh, _that’s_ why your eyes are that color!”

Lio blinks at him. “Yes. I didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

“Well, what was I going to do?” Galo asks reasonably. “Say hi, how come your eyes are purpley-pink?”

“People do,” Lio says. “It depends on the light, though.”

“That’s rude.” Galo kicks his feet against the carpet. “Is it weird?”

“Mostly just annoying,” Lio says. “I sunburn too quickly, and my eyesight is terrible. I wear contacts,” he explains. “I still don’t like very bright light.”

“Ohhhh, no wonder you’re kind of goth.”

“ _Goth?_ ” Lio sounds offended. “Do you see seventeen chains hanging off my pants?”

“Well, whatever! You have green hair!”

“That’s not _remotely_ the same thing, you idiot.” Lio thumps his shin with a pencil for emphasis. “I’m going to borrow your eyes for this, they’re nice and recessive.” Galo’s mom was half-white; as far as he knows the rest of his family is all Japanese, but according to biology class his dad had some blue-eyed ancestor somewhere. “I doubt Dr. Silvestris has ever noticed mine.”

“I dunno, your eyes are pretty noticeable. In a cool way.” He swivels the chair back and forth happily. “I forget, what color eyes would that give my kids? If I ever had any.”

“Fifty percent chance of blue or brown if one of your spouse’s grandparents had blue eyes and hers were brown, which is who you’re marrying in this worksheet,” Lio says.

“If you’re doing the homework right.”

“I have a ninety-seven in Bio right now.”

“Seriously?” Galo squeaks the chair to a stop. “Wow. I was just teasing, anyway,” he adds, “I’m sure you’re doing great.”

Lio smiles a little, but he waves it off with, “Well, I’m not a sophomore, it probably helps.” He tilts his head. “Do you not want to ever have kids? You seemed like you liked them.”

“I mean, I’m going to _have kids,_ ” Galo says. “But I’m gonna adopt. You?”

Lio shrugs. “No idea,” he says, bending over the paper again. The wispy ends of his hair brush against the nape of his neck in delicate green strands. It looks oddly vulnerable, somehow, and it does something weird in Galo’s chest. “I figure I won’t need to decide for a while. Depends on the state anyway.”

“Oh yeah.” Galo kicks at the carpet again, harder. “That’s stupid. It’s _so_ stupid. I just — kids need families, and if there’s a family who _wants_ them, actually really wants to have them, nothing else matters at all. And now you’re going to keep them away from a place that could be home, over some stupid crap about who their parents love or whatever? It’s _so_ stupid. That’s pissing me off so much now.” He breaks off, because Lio is looking at him funny. “What?”

Lio taps his pencil against his lips. “You’re right,” he says, strangely calm. Almost soft-sounding, actually, which is a little odd. Galo would expect him to go all sharp-edged and tightly wound about this, the way he usually does when he’s angry. “It is stupid.”

“Yeah, well.” Galo shakes his head, shaking the bad mood off as much as he can. At home he might go for a jog or something, but he doesn’t need to, and he doesn’t want to ditch Lio. It’s just… things are so pointlessly unfair sometimes. “Anyway, I could get kids with any color eyes, so that’s cool.”

“Maybe I should put that down as my answer instead of a Punnett square,” Lio says wearily, and bends back over the paper. Galo cranes his neck to see if he’s actually doing it, but nah, doesn’t look like it.

After another while Lio looks up at Galo again. “How’s the homework going?” he asks, sounding wryly amused for some reason.

“Pretty good!” Galos says, hitting pause on his iPod.

“Really,” Lio says, and yeah, he definitely sounds like he’s about to laugh. “Because that looks a lot like Minesweeper.”

“Yeah?” Galo says, confused, and then: “Oh, yeah, you don’t know.” He waves his hanging earbud in Lio’s direction. “I get audiobooks of the English stuff, so I’m doing the reading for that right now. Well, not _right_ now, I paused it when you started talking.”

“Huh,” Lio says, looking taken aback. “Why is it you do that?”

“Well, it’s easier to focus on listening than reading!” Galo says. “Plus I listen to it while I’m doing chores in stuff. Gets everything I have to do out of the way.” He shrugs. “I remember more too.” He’d been on the verge of flunking English before Tialma came up with the idea, and kind of freaking out — you need a diploma or a GED to be a firefighter, after all, and what would he even do if he couldn’t be a firefighter because he couldn’t conquer some stupid book? It had been a bad couple weeks. But the important part is that it worked out, and these days English is one of his better classes, and quietly one of his favorites just because it’s so much easier than it used to be. It’s a victory.

“That’s a lot of thought put into it,” Lio says.

“Well, yeah!” Galo blinks at him. “Grades are important. I mean, I’m not going to college, but I need to at least graduate.”

“And go to the firefighter’s academy,” Lio says. “I remember.”

“Yeah, that!” Galo frowns, because Lio has that small entertained smile back on his face. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Only a little,” Lio says. “You talk about it a lot, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it’s great,” Galo says. “It’s important and I’m going to be the best at it, so there.”

“I can believe that,” Lio says. Galo preens a little, even though it’s an obviously believable fact. “Is the reading all you have left?”

“Yeah,” Galo says. “Wait, are you done with your homework? I can finish this later no problem if you want to do something else.”

“Sure,” Lio says. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Iunno.” Galo shrugs. “Oh, I saw something funny the other day —” He spins back to the computer and opens YouTube, looking for the video of the sneezing panda. “Come on, have a look.”

“Sure.” The chair bounces a little as Lio braces himself on its battered plastic arm. “So you like animals?”

“Yeah, of course!” Galo says. “Who doesn’t?”

“Let me guess,” Lio says. “Dog person?”

“Yeah!” Galo says. “Dogs are great. I don’t, like, _not_ like cats though, they’re pretty cool.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lio says. Galo can’t see if he’s smiling because Lio’s face is about at Galo’s ear, but it sounds like he is. “Go on, I want to see this.”

“Cool,” Galo says, clicking. It’s as good as he remembers — the sneeze is _so loud,_ and the panda mom jumps just a person _—_ and it makes Lio laugh, a near-soundless huff of air against Galo’s cheek. Lio’s happiness is so much quieter than his anger; Galo likes getting to hear it.

“Okay, my turn,” Lio says, leaning forward, “here, let me.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Galo says, yielding both the keyboard and the chair. Lio clatters at the keyboard for a second and pulls up a video of… a giant water balloon?

“ _Cool,_ ” Galo says, on general principles.

“Just wait,” Lio says, sliding the play bar ahead past some guy talking. Galo leans forward to get a closer look, bracing his elbows on Lio’s shoulders. Lio grunts, cursor stuttering across the screen as his hand twitches on the mouse.

“Whoa, you okay?” Galo asks, flinching back.

“Fine,” Lio says, reaching up to rub his shoulder. “You just hit a knot in the muscle.”

“Oh, really?” Galo pokes at him, and _wow._ He didn’t notice before, since he doesn’t, like, have sensitive elbows, but Lio’s back is tense as his guitar strings. “Wow, you feel like frozen meat. But warm.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re _really_ tense,” Galo clarifies, and digs his thumbs into the muscle. Lio makes a noise like he’s been punched, bowing his head over the keyboard.

“That hurts.”

“Yeah, because you’re really tense!” Galo says, working his way up to the base of Lio’s neck. “It’ll feel better in a second.”

“Nnngh…”

“You should do stretches!” Galo says, pressing at the long muscle that stretches down the side of Lio’s neck. He can actually feel it starting to have a little more give under his fingers, which is cool but also a little bit freaky. “So you don’t get like this.”

“I’m bus…sy… _shit_ …”

“Oh, rough spot?” Galo asks; he’s found a muscle cluster right at the hinge of Lio’s jaw. He gives it some hard circles, feeling Lio’s jaw move against his hand while he grunts, and then gets back down to his shoulders, again, which — wow. Still rough. The second his hands are away from Lio’s face Lio slumps forward; his hair makes a curtain falling halfway to the desk. The video is apparently completely forgotten.

“Wow,” Galo mutters, shoving his palms against Lio’s trapezius. It doesn’t work at all, so he just drums his hands sharply across the entire breadth of Lio’s shoulders, hoping to loosen things up a little.

“That shouldn’t feel good,” Lio says, voice jostled a little by the drumming.

“It should, though,” Galo says. “Because you’re really tense! I keep _saying!_ Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“I’m — _fuck,_ ” Lio says, swaying forward again, as Galo goes back to slow work on his shoulders. It’s a little easier this time, which means it feels like he isn’t actually just poking steel. Basically anywhere he pushes down, he can feel a knot start to give, and Lio lets out these little half-pained noises that are kind of really satisfying. Galo likes problems he knows how to fix.

“That’s getting better,” Galo says, still digging his fingers into the muscle in little circles but more gently now. Lio makes another muffled noise.

“You — ah hell — you remember I’m gay, right?”

“Huh?” Galo’s surprised into stilling his hands. “Yeah? Duh? I mean, it’s not like you make it easy to forget!” Which makes Lio get tenser under his hands for some reason, which, _no,_ the _opposite of that!_ That makes him realize he’s never actually said this to Lio out loud, though, so: “I think it’s badass!”

“What is?” Lio asks, glancing up. He’s a little flushed-looking, probably from the way he’s kind of slumped over. (It’s pretty convenient actually, it makes it easier for Galo to get a good angle on his back.)

“The jacket and everything.” He can feel Lio starting to relax a little again, and rubs slow circles with his thumbs to help. “You know. Why’d you ask that now?”

“Because you’re — mmm — all over me,” Lio says, and his face is definitely red, but then Galo finds another knot to work loose and his eyes kind of glaze over.

“…so?”

“You’re — mmmm — comfortable with that?”

“Yeah?” Galo says. “I’m very secure.”

“…right,” Lio says, with a faint sigh that must be from the knot of tension Galo just discovered still there at the base of his neck. “Oh Jesus.”

“And you really really need this,” Galo adds, getting that knot loose. His hands are kind of getting tired, so he palms over Lio’s shoulders one more time, just as a finishing pass. Lio’s so slight; his shoulder blades, his collarbones are clear ridges under Galo’s hands. He feels delicate, which is funny because Lio has already become one of the first people Galo would want on his side in a fight. Probably not a lot of people know he even can seem delicate at all, what with the burning strength that radiates off him all the time. “There you go, way better. Hey, are we gonna watch this?”

Lio rolls his shoulders tentatively. “That _is_ better,” he admits, halfway to himself, and hits play.

The video is pretty incredible — it’s really hard to break the balloon, apparently, so the guys in the video bounce off it forever and it does a whole bunch of wild wiggling in slow motion. There’s some others by the same people, so they watch some droplets of colorful liquid splash into each other, and then Lio clicks on one with a thumbnail of an explosion. Galo kind of winces.

“You can’t play that kind of thing for a firefighter-to-be,” he says, reaching past Lio to hit pause.

“It’s all contained,” Lio assures him, “it’s safe.”

“Yeah, but it’s still _fire._ ” Galo rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s not like it scares me! I couldn’t be much of a firefighter if it did, and it just burns. But I don’t want to watch a whole video of it in slow motion.”

He’s kind of assuming Lio will tease him about it a little, ask if he’s going to try to put out the laptop. Which would be fine; it’s true, Galo’s enthusiastic. Instead Lio cranes his head up to give Galo a long, thoughtful look. “You’re really serious about this.”

“Of course I am!” He bites his lip, focusing on a little plastic thing on the desk — some kind of cartoon bug with big yellow eyes, much easier to look at than anything else just now. “My parents died in a fire. The — my first parents. Thymos.”

“Oh,” Lio says. It’s half a word, half just the sound of his mouth falling open.

“Yeah,” Galo says, shrugging. “Electrical, probably, I looked it up. We were on the ground floor and my dad put me out the bathroom window, but it was too small for anyone else to fit. I was eight. So.”

Lio doesn’t say anything. Instead, quietly, he reaches up and settles his hand over Galo’s forearm, slow and feather-gentle. He squeezes, just enough pressure for Galo to be sure Lio’s hand is actually on his skin. He doesn’t ask Galo to talk about it, or apologize, or say how awful it is like Galo doesn’t already know that. Just that gentle grip, and as Galo watches, he squeezes his eyes closed for just a second. Galo finds himself thinking about moments of silence — real ones, at memorials and things, not at school where everyone’s just trying to borrow a pencil.

“Anyway,” Galo says, and squints at the related videos. “Oh, hey, that one’s a cat!”

“That one,” Lio says decisively, and clicks. It’s a cat jumping in slow motion, which turns out to be _very_ cool, all liquid motion and changing shape. That leads to a bunch of kittens climbing stairs, clawing at the carpet to pull themselves up, and then Galo pulls up a goofy song about a hamster on a piano. There’s also a parrot singing a song Lio recognizes and Galo doesn’t whose refrain is _let the bodies hit the floor,_ which is incredible because the bird is tiny.

“Okay, play that again, it was great,” Galo says, leaning past Lio to try and get hold of the mouse, and immediately knocks his elbow into a cardboard box. “Oh shit —” Yeah, it teeters off the desk immediately, spilling something bright and colorful all over the floor. “Sorry!” Galo says, dropping to gather them back up. They’re little lengths of brightly colored cord — rainbow bracelets, like the one Lio wears close against his wrist. “Oh, hey. Why do you have so many of these?”

“They’re cheap,” Lio says with a shrug, as he kneels to help gather the scattered bracelets up. “I go through a lot of them.”

“What?” Galo frowns. “Do people _take_ them?!”

“What? No.” Lio shakes his head. “No, they’re just not very well made, so they wear out and fall off. I got this whole box for about twenty dollars.” He flips the box itself over, dumping a handful of bracelets in. “People don’t get physical with me much,” he says absently, checking under the desk chair. “It might be easier if they did, I can hold my own in a fight.” He grabs another stray bracelet from under the desk. “That’s probably why they don’t do it. No one is ripping bracelets off my wrists, or whatever you’re imagining.”

That pretty much is what Galo was imagining, yeah. Somebody’s hands on Lio’s wrists, bruising-hard; someone hooking a finger under that bright brave strand and pulling till it snapped. Not that that would be easy to do; Lio’s quick when he chooses, and hard to get hold of.

“I’ve gotten my hair pulled a couple of times,” Lio continues, unearthing another bracelet from the tangled cables by the wall. “And I get knocked around in gym class. That’s about it.”

“People pull your _hair?_ ” Galo demands. “That’s not right!”

“No,” Lio says, sitting up. “None of it is right.”

“But…” But Lio looks so horribly calm, so resigned, right now. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“What kind of question is that?” Lio asks, suddenly sharp. Galo’s almost relieved. “Of course it bothers me. Some days I get home and I feel like I’m peeling off a metal shell, dented and pitted and scratched. Over and over and over. Every day. I overheard someone complaining that someone insulted her at lunch that day, and when school got out it was still bothering her, and all I could think was — imagine one comment being enough to ruin your day. Imagine still being able to _remember_ everyone who insulted you, by the end of the day. I’ve never even tried to keep track. And no one thing is ever that bad, which means it’s never big enough to fight. And it happens again, and again, and again. Every single day.” He’s gripping his own knee, knuckles white. He’s not looking at Galo anymore.

“I —” Galo swallows; it’s not easy. His throat is burning. “Fuck.” To hell with it, this needs decisive action. He flings himself forward and pulls Lio into his arms.

Lio makes a low, startled noise that Galo thoroughly ignores, in favor of hooking his own chin over Lio’s shoulder and squeezing Lio tight. Lio’s hair smells sort of like sour candy, which is weird but not the thing that matters right now. What matters is holding on to him like Galo can put his own body between Lio and every petty, vicious, _stupid_ word anyone has ever said to him.

“It shouldn’t be like that,” he says. “I’ll fight all of them.”

“I can fight my own battles,” Lio says, but he doesn’t pull away. “And like I said. There’s never one thing that matters enough to fight.”

“I said _all of them,_ ” Galo says. “I mean it. Every single one of them. I don’t care how long it takes!”

“Galo.” Lio sighs, turning his head a little into Galo’s shoulder. Hesitantly, his hands come up to Galo’s waist, a delicate featherlight touch. Galo’s maybe holding him a little tight, but he doesn’t seem inclined to complain. “You can’t fix this.”

“Bullshit. I bet I can if I try.”

“I’ve been trying for years,” Lio says, and, holy fuck, this is just. So wrong. “I hope you don’t think I’m so incompetent.”

“Teamwork,” Galo says. “Teamwork will help.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Lio says, but Galo can feel him shudder a little.

“I can make it _better,_ ” Galo says. “Come on. I can at least do that.”

Lio sighs under his hands. It’s a weird feeling, being close enough to feel all those little twitches that he normally couldn’t see. Useful, though, and kind of cool. And then he’s not thinking about that anymore, because Lio says, “You already have,” and pulls away. Not far, but enough to sit up straight. His hair is in front of his eyes again.

“What?” Galo frowns. “I didn’t do anything yet. Did you mean Vulcan? Because I know he didn’t actually stop. I can figure something out, I’ll make him —”

“Don’t,” Lio says. “I can deal with him. Just…” He looks up, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “Caring helps,” he says steadily, looking at Galo. “Not being alone helps. That’s enough.”

“Okay,” Galo says, ignoring the discontented muttering at the back of his head that says it doesn’t feel like _nearly_ enough. “Then I’ll keep caring. I care a lot.”

“I noticed,” Lio says, with a tiny twitch of his mouth. “Why do you care so much? Would you care about anyone?”

“Well, yeah!” Galo says. “It’s _wrong._ It sucks and it’s wrong and it’s not fair. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, though,” he adds. “I do. But I’d care if anyone was getting treated like that.”

Lio’s mouth quirks. “Honor of a firefighter?” he asks.

“See, you get it!” It belatedly occurs to Galo that Lio might have been making fun of him, but Lio’s smile is gentle enough that if he was, Galo doesn’t mind. Lio wouldn’t mean it cruelly, of that Galo is sure. Lio’s better than the rest of them.

* * *

Galo’s restless, that night, tosses and turns and can’t really get to sleep. It happens sometimes. (One of the nice things about football is that it super _doesn’t_ happen on practice nights.) After the third time he kicks his way out of the sheets, he sighs and leans precariously out of bed to grab his backpack by one strap. Music helps with this stuff, usually; it’s why he keeps his stereo on his nightstand even though it takes up the whole thing.

His iPod is on the bottom of the bag, because of course it is; after a moment Galo decides to kick this problem a little ways into the future and upends his backpack completely. A flash of bright color catches his eye in the cascade of stuff.

“Huh?” he mumbles, picking it out of a pile of paper scraps. It’s one of Lio’s bracelets, now sporting a few small crumbs of potato chip. It must have fallen into the bag earlier.

It belongs to Lio; he should get it back to him. On the other hand, Lio had the whole box, so maybe it doesn’t matter too much? Not that it’s an effort to go talk to Lio, or anything, but giving the bracelet back is exactly the kind of thing that Galo has a lot of trouble remembering.

“Whatever,” Galo decides, curling his fingers around the little link of braided cord. It’s kind of soft, actually, and he likes the texture of it. “It’s late.” He’ll worry about it in the morning. In the meantime, he fishes his iPod out of the general rubble, and drops it and the bracelet on top of his stereo so he can fumble for the aux cord.

_You would not believe your eyes if ten million fireflies…_

Galo has a whole playlist for nights like these; well, he shuffles it, but it’s stored as a playlist anyway. Happy, relaxing stuff, not the kind of thing that’s been in his head lately. He burrows back under the covers, yawning already.

The thing is, there _is_ an easy way for Lio to make people stop bugging him, or at least to make his life easier. He could just ditch the bracelet and the jacket and maybe the green hair and the big black boots. And if he ever does that, Galo is really seriously going to need to fight some people. Everyone in the school, if he has to; they can line up.

It’s not going to come to that, though. Not with Lio’s kind of courage. Galo yawns, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets his eyes fall closed.


	5. absentmindedly making me want you

When Galo gets out of the cafeteria line, something hits him: he super doesn’t want to sit with the team. It’s a game day today, so the table is a sea of the same blue and red emblazoned on Galo’s back, and looking the laughing mass makes his back just… itch. Badly. Even with Ignis there, expressionless under his sunglasses as everyone laughs at one of Vulcan’s jokes.

“Hey, excuse me?” someone says pointedly behind him, and Galo moves a few feet to the left, scanning the cafeteria for somewhere else to sit. People might give him crap about it later, if they notice, but: fuck it.

Lio’s little group isn’t here today, for whatever reason; sometimes they aren’t. Galo can, however, spot Aina just sitting down at a table by the bright windows, and he’s pretty sure they’re friends now. Well, she mostly helps him spell stuff in English and loans him pencils, and he reminds her to put her hair back if they’re using Bunsen burners in chemistry, and notices when she’s frowning at the grades she gets back. Which never seem frown-worthy to him; she gets mostly 80s so far, a few high 70s. Usually better than he does, so when she gets all frowny and quietly sad he makes sure to tell her his own scores.

In conclusion:

“Hey!” he says, coming up next to her. “Can I sit here?”

She blinks at him for a second, but she says “Sure,” and nudges her tray aside. He drops his own onto the table and grabs a chair, looking around at his new seatmates. He has met… none of them, so far, though the school’s small enough that they all look familiar.

“Hey, another football convert,” the big guy next to Aina says, leaning over to fistbump Galo. Galo returns it happily, although he’s never seen this guy before in his life.

“You haven’t played football in like three years, Varys,” the tiny girl with the pink-and-bleached hair says.

“That’s what a convert is,” says the guy with the silver glasses, taking a weary sip of his soda. “Hi, I’m Remi.”

“Hi!” Galo says. “I’m Galo Thymos.”

“Aina’s mentioned you!” the pink-haired girl says. “Apparently you’re really loud.”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Galo says, tearing open his carton of milk. “Why’d you quit football?” he asks Varys.

“Got a concussion,” Varys says, tapping the close-shaved dome of his head. “Decided I don’t like football _that_ much. Not that band is a lot safer with Lucia around,” he adds, flicking a baked bean at the pink-haired girl.

“You have no respect for my artistic process,” she says, catapulting a bean right back with her spoon.

“I thought it was your scientific process I didn’t respect,” Varys says.

“You don’t respect _any_ of my processes!”

“Are they always like this?” Galo asks Aina.

“Usually they’re worse,” she says. “You’ll fit right in.” She grins, though, elbowing him gently when she says it.

“What’d you do to his head?” Galo asks Lucia, hoping this does not lead to himself getting pelted with a baked bean. Like, he usually wouldn’t care, but he has to play football in this jersey and he’d rather not smell like beans the whole time.

“Hit me with her goddamn trombone,” Varys says. “Like, the slide.”

“The what?” Galo asks, having a vague image of a tiny playground slide hanging off the side of an instrument.

“The bit that sticks out and slides,” Varys says, as he and Lucia mime this in accidental unison. “Clocks me upside the head once a goddamn week.”

“So stay out of the way of the brass!” Lucia says.

“Goddamn brass,” Varys mutters.

“What do you play?” Galo asks.

“Saxophone!” Varys says proudly.

“A saxophone is brass though?”

“No it isn’t,” says the entire table at once, loudly.

It’s still better than sitting with Vulcan.

“Sorry about him,” Aina says.

“Hey,” Galo protests.

“It’s okay, newbie,” Varys says, “you’ll learn. Goddammit, Lucia, again? We’re _gonna_ get caught.”

“He gets lonely!” Lucia says, which is when Galo looks over and discovers she’s feeding a baked bean to a rat.

“Whoa!” Galo says, immediately entranced. “Where did he come from?”

“He goes in my pocket,” Lucia says. “Hey, watch this. Vinny, walk!” Vinny stands up and teeters across the table on his hind feet. Galo oohs appreciatively, though everybody else looks bored. “You wanna shake Galo’s hand, Vinny? Do ya?”

“He can _do_ that?”

“Well, I mean, your finger,” Lucia says. Galo immediately presents it, and Vinny really does put his tiny scratchy paws on Galo’s finger and bounce them up and down.

“You guys are so much cooler than the football table,” Galo says earnestly, making the whole group break into happy laughter.

* * *

No one actually says anything to Galo about eating lunch with the band kids, so maybe it’s fine. They lose the football game that night, which sucks, but they made a good show of it. He did okay himself, got some good blocks in. None of it really takes the sting out of losing. He’s not slamming his fist into walls and kicking all the lockers shut, though, unlike some people _._ Like, Jesus, take a walk, don’t embarrass Coach Kray with this shit.

(Galo doesn’t say any of that, because Ignis is already on it. Vulcan sneers at him about it, but he at least stops hitting stuff.)

Instead Galo does what he’s always done when they lose, which is: get home, shower off the bummer of it all, eat late-night ice cream with Tialma, and then pass out for twelve hours straight. (He does that last one after wins too.)

“Morning, kiddo,” Tialma says, when he stumbles downstairs and hones in on the coffeemaker. “Oh, you had a phone call.”

“I what now?” Galo says, and takes a long slug of coffee directly from the pot.

“ _Please_ drink like a human being.”

“I have literally watched you do this!”

“That’s true, but I’m not proud of it. Anyway, Lio called. He left his phone number, it’s on the notepad.” She points at the counter, and the phone sitting on it.

“Cool.” Tialma has a thing about not giving people Galo’s phone number without asking him first; he’s never really cared, but it’s sweet. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“To invite you to something. I didn’t get any details, but he said Dian would be there, so, you know, I assume not a drug orgy.”

“Ew,” Galo says. “Wait, would that have been what you thought it was? He’s a good guy!”

“No, Galito,” Tialma says, rolling her eyes, “I wouldn’t have. I like Dian Fotia, you like her son, and I trust you to make good decisions.” She flicks her newspaper page over. “Well, I trust you to be kind and to do the right thing, at least.”

“Hey,” Galo says halfheartedly.

“Remember that time I caught you trying to climb onto the garage roof from the tree?”

“I was thirteen, c’mon,” he says, taking another sip from the coffeepot.

“And it took thirteen years off my life,” she says. “You’re going to wash that thing, I hope you realize that.”

“Okay, I will,” he says, and grabs the notepad, ripping off the sheet with Lio’s number. His own phone is in his sweatshirt pocket; he ambles outside to call, coffeepot still in hand. (The reception is okay inside, but it’s better in the backyard, and besides, it’s nice and sunny out.)

He’s greeted with “Who the fuck is this?”

“Me!” Galo says indignantly, and then, realizing this is maybe not helpful, “Galo Thymos! Your friend!”

“Oh, hey,” Lio says. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize the number.”

“And this is how you answer the phone?”

“Yes,” Lio says. “Nobody calls me except my aunt.”

“You called me!” Galo points out, waving the coffeepot in the direction of an imaginary Lio for emphasis.

“I figured you’d text me. Why didn’t you?”

“Because _you called me._ Do you not want to talk to me or something?”

Lio laughs a little. “No, it’s fine. Anyway, there’s this roller rink a little south of Promepolis, and we were going to go there for a while this afternoon.”

“Who’s we?”

“Oh. Uh. Me and my mom.” There’s a faint shifting sound. “Anyway, do you want to come?”

“Sure!” Galo says. “It sounds great. Wait, do I need roller skates? Because I don’t have any.”

“You can rent them there,” Lio says. “We can pick you up? In like… forty minutes, actually, you sleep late.”

“Only after football,” Galo says. “Okay, only this late after football. Still kind of late. Anyway, sounds awesome. Thanks for inviting me!”

“Sure,” Lio says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “See you in a minute.”

“Sweet,” Galo says, hanging up, and bounces back in to inform Tialma. He already can’t wait.

* * *

“Hey, Miz Dian!” Galo says, sliding into the back seat of her hatchback. Lio’s smiling at him already, with a tangle of skates taking up the middle seat. He’s got hold of a long blue aux cord, which surprises Galo not in the slightest.

“Hello, Galo,” Dian says, smiling at him in the rearview mirror. “Glad you could join us.”

“Thanks for inviting me!” Galo says happily, grabbing for the seatbelt.

“Oh, no trouble. I’m glad Lio has a friend to invite besides his ducklings.”

“ _Mom,_ ” Lio says, sounding absolutely exhausted by the curse of having a mother. It’s an okay kind of exhausted, though, nothing that makes Galo think of bitter songs or the tight line of his shoulders in Algebra. More importantly:

“Whoa, you have _ducklings?_ ”

“I’m afraid not actual ducklings,” Dian says, laughing. Lio sinks into his jacket and mutters, “It’s what she calls my freshmen.”

“Oh, yeah, Thyma and the others?” Galo says. “Why ducklings?”

“Ducklings follow their mother around all in a row,” Dian says, “Or whoever they see and decide is their mother. And they seem to have picked him.”

“Mom, come on,” Lio says, slouching enough to put his feet on the back of her seat. That would get Galo swatted at the next stoplight, but Dian just says, “Feet,” and Lio begrudgingly drops them.

“That’s cute,” Galo says, meaning the ducklings. “I think they follow him in more of a clump, though.”

“How did you notice that?” Lio asks, blinking at him. “You don’t hang out with us.”

“I see you, though!” Galo says. “You’re easy to spot, especially when there’s four of you.” He’s not totally sure that sentence worked, but whatever.

“Well, they file into the house in a row,” she says. “Why don’t you hang out with him at school? Lio, embarrassed to be seen with your friend?”

“Yes,” Lio deadpans. “I can’t hang out with a jock in public.”

“ _Hey!_ ” Galo squawks. “We talk between classes! Screw you, I’m going to start eating lunch with you all now. If I can find you, anyway, you vanish all the time.”

“Good,” Dian laughs. “Lio needs people to stand up to him.”

“Do you _try_ to embarrass me in front of my friends?” Lio asks, rolling his eyes.

“Yes,” Dian says with perfect serenity.

“What’re you embarrassed about?” Galo asks, genuinely confused. “Your mom’s cool.”

Both Fotias turn a pleased pink about that, because they’re a weird family. Lio clears his throat. “Anyway,” he says. “We eat in the courtyard a lot if the weather’s okay. It’s allowed, it’s just nobody does it. Don’t scare my freshmen.”

“That’s a cool idea,” Galo allows. “You should come sit with Aina and Varys and Lucia and me sometimes, though! Unless any of them are jerks to you.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dian’s mouth press into a thin line for a second. “Lucia has a pet rat,” he adds, by way of enticement.

“I think they’re okay,” Lio says. “Does she have pictures of the rat?”

“She has the rat!” Galo says. “His name is Vinny and he shakes hands.”

“I’m sure I misunderstood,” Dian says, with a faint note of warning, “and you mean that you went to her house and met her rat, and I don’t know anything I’d have to do anything about.”

“Uh,” Galo says.

“Yes,” Lio says over him. “That is exactly it.”

“What?” Galo mouths to Lio, who just rolls his eyes in explanation. It’s something Galo could tell Tialma with no problem, but okay, whatever, if Dian doesn’t want to know about rats. He glances around for something else to talk about.

“Are these your skates, Lio?” he asks, poking a striped black-and-green pair. “Oh, they’re not the in-line kind?”

“Not in this house,” Dian says, at the same time as Lio says, “Absolutely not.”

“Whoa, okay okay okay!”

Dian laughs. “Sorry,” she says. “I did roller derby for years — I still do, sometimes. Quad skates only.”

“What’s roller derby?” Galo asks.

“Now you’ve done it,” Lio says.

“It’s a full-contact rollerskating competition where you race the other team around a track for points,” Dian says, and Galo’s jaw drops.

“ _What._ That’s so cool.”

Further questions about this occupy most of the forty-minute drive through Promepolis to the rink, by which point Galo is actively mad the school doesn’t have a roller derby team. (For all his exasperation, Lio chimes in a fair bit, having apparently watched Dian skate a lot when he was little.) Their destination is all featureless concrete, sitting like an out-of-place warehouse at one end of a strip mall. Then they get through the door and Galo skids to a stop, taking in the wave of noise and light.

It’s a massive place with pastel walls, echoing with music and the sound of skates on wood. People whizz in circles through the rink, fast and slow and shaky and wild, under a swirl of colored lights and a glinting disco ball. Off to the side are walled-off spots, lined in benches and small lockers; over by one end Galo can see what looks like a snack bar. Everything is speed and motion and glowing color, and Galo loves it instantly.

Dian pays for his ticket before he can stop her — Tialma gave him a twenty for this! Come on! — but he at least manages to rent his own skates, and manages to find some that both fit and are adequately cool (sleek black and shiny blue, with silver in the wheels). When he turns around, the Fotias have their skates on already, and they’re slinging possessions into a locker. Lio sheds his jacket with a graceful shrug of his shoulders, revealing a black tank top and a necklace and choker. The disco light dances over his collarbone.

“Whoa, you’re taking your jacket off?” Galo actually does blurt out loud. Lio didn’t even do that at Meis and Gueira’s, only his own house. Lio looks at him like this is a completely incomprehensible question.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I’m going to be warm enough without it. Skating is work.”

“Okay,” Galo says, looking around the room. It makes sense once he thinks about it; Lio and Dian are the only people here he’s ever seen before in his life, and no one is paying them any attention. There’s no one to ward off, and maybe Lio doesn’t feel the need to make as much of a point when he’s around strangers. (He’s still got the bracelet anyhow, bright and defiant on his wrist.) Maybe Meis and Gueira’s house is just cold, and Galo’s overthinking it.

“Get your skates on,” Lio says, so Galo does. Dian waves to them with a quick “Have fun!” and vanishes into the whirl of people, but Lio waits, drumming his fingers on his thigh as Galo struggles with the boots. “Lace them tight.”

“Cool,” Galo says, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. He gets them tight as instructed, shoves himself up, and immediately his feet go in two wildly different directions and he lands on his ass with a thud.

Lio looks down at him. “Galo, have you ever been on roller skates before?”

“Nope,” Galo says cheerfully, and tries to stand back up. There’s some obvious hiccups here, ie, his feet keep rolling away. Lio sighs and holds out his hand.

“Here,” he says, and pulls Galo back to his feet. He has to take most of Galo’s weight to do it, but he does it without blinking. It makes the muscles jump out in his bare arm, wiry and strong.

“How are you secretly jacked?” Galo asks, getting his feet steady under him. “Do you lift weights when nobody’s around?” He’s absolutely sure he has never once seen Lio in the school weight room, which. Knocked around in gym class. Yeah, he might not go to the weight room either.

“Archery class on Wednesdays,” Lio says. The corner of his mouth twitches up. “I practice a lot. My bow is a fifty-five-pound draw.”

Galo isn’t totally sure what that means but clearly Lio is stronger than he looks, so Galo doesn’t worry about it and instead skips straight to goggling. “How many sports do you do that I don’t know we have?” he demands.

“Only these two,” Lio says, and skates backwards with no apparent effort whatsoever, towing Galo with him. “Come on. It’s just like sliding on ice.”

“Oh!” Galo says, because he can do that. He pushes, and yeah, there it goes, the motion clicking into familiar place. “Oh, I get it!”

“That’s better,” Lio says, but he doesn’t let go of Galo’s hand. Instead he tows Galo backwards into the central rink, smooth and sure. “Try to get a sense of how to move.”

“Like this!” Galo says proudly, pushing himself along.

“Yeah, you’re getting it. Here, try to turn…” and Galo does, leaning into the turn in the comfortable assurance that Lio won’t let him crash into a wall.

Lio tows him gently through a full circuit of the rink, his fingers cool on Galo’s, before he finally slows. “Do you think you’ve got it from here?” he asks.

“Yeah!” Galo says, because he does. Lio drops his hand, smiling, and skates in a perfect crescent behind Galo’s back. Galo’s not _that_ good yet. Lio grins over at him, tiny and fierce.

“Race you,” he says, and takes off, flickering between skaters like a burst of flame. Galo yelps in indignation and takes off after him, with enthusiasm if little success.

He loses track of Lio in the crowd before he’s halfway down the side of the rink, but he’s got a pretty good pace going by then. It’s easy to fall into; easy to sink into speed and surging muscle and the roll of light and music around him. He could love this, he can already tell.

He calls for more speed and his body answers him.

He and Lio pass each other as the songs blend together. Lio doesn’t curtail his own pace to match Galo’s, which Galo honestly prefers; it’d be a bummer if Lio didn’t get to really skate because he brought Galo along. But Lio waves each time he zips past, or smiles, or tags Galo playfully on the shoulder and darts off among the others. And Galo’s getting better; picking up speed, steering more smoothly the way he wants. He tries weaving, tries tighter turns, tries picking up one foot to coast along. It’s good.

One song is winding down into the next when Galo spots Lio leaning against the half-wall by one gate, clearly catching his breath. He’s flushed pink and bright, panting a little, and the lights pick up a sheen of sweat on his skin. Galo coasts in next to him, catching himself with one hand on on the cool cement of the wall. “Hey!” he says. “This is _awesome_.”

“Good,” Lio says; he was already kind of smiling, which is unusual and important and great, but his smile quirks a little warmer. “I thought you’d like it.”

The loudspeaker crackles to life, as it’s done a few times. “Everyone, the next skate will be a pairs skate only, repeat, the next song will be a pairs skate only. Please find a partner or clear the rink for the next song, we’re going to do a pairs skate only.”

Galo blinks in the general direction of the DJ booth. “That’s a thing?” Guitar starts thrumming out from the speakers, vaguely familiar — Taylor Swift, probably.

“They do this,” Lio says, sighing. “Triples too, sometimes, or women-only, or skating clockwise for a song.” He shrugs one bare shoulder. “It’s a water break.”

“This is fun, though!” Galo says. “I want to keep skating.”

“I know,” Lio says, all resignation. “I don’t like it either.” Galo squints at him.

“So… let’s keep skating!” he says slowly; it seems like an obvious solution to him. He holds out his hand.

Lio tilts his head for a second; then he laughs. The disco ball is still going, scattering starlight-silver off his skin. “All right,” he says. “If you’re okay with that.” And he takes Galo’s hand in his warm sure grip and tows him out onto the rink again.

It’s the same as before, Lio skating confidently backwards and towing Galo with him. Which is enough for Galo to realize how much better he’s gotten even in the last — hour? Maybe a few? — because he’s getting further on his own strength now, steering more, leaning less of his weight on Lio’s hand. He pushes a little harder and closes the gap between them, just to see if he can. Yup: beating Lio on speed, at least when Lio’s, you know, backwards.

“I win,” he says, although he’s not sure if Lio will know what he’s talking about.

“This doesn’t work if you’re trying to crash into me,” Lio says, laughing, and uses their joined hands to shove Galo back a couple inches. That’s fair, so Galo matches his pace to Lio’s, and it’s surprisingly easy to fall into it, to find a matching rhythm. Almost like dancing.

The song soars sweet and high into the chorus as they curve around the end of the rink, Lio making the turn a little sharper than it has to be. The speed is enough to lift his hair, throwing soft green strands into his face, and he shakes his head to get them away, smiling rare and bright and happy. They pass through the swirl of the pink spotlight, playing over the delicate bones of his face and the way his tank top hangs loose over his collarbone. And everything about him shines: his hair, his necklaces, all the silvery steel in his face, the bracelets, the bright black glint of his nail polish, the incredible pink of his eyes. He’s beautiful. It hits Galo, suddenly, that he’s as happy as he’s ever been, right now, surrounded by speed and joy and music and light, and with Lio’s hand in his. It’s perfect.

Lio gives up on shaking his head and uses his free hand to tuck his hair behind his ears, smiling at Galo like he’s perfectly happy too, and Galo —

Oh?

Oh!

 _It’s a love story,_ the music croons, _baby just say yes._

_Oh._


	6. get these teen hearts beating faster

Galo manages to — not ignore this, exactly, but to just. Set it aside for a while, mark it _come back to this_ and focus on right here, right now. He skates his heart out for the next few hours, smiling at Lio when they zip past each other and meaning it each time, and he sinks himself deep into speed and muscle-surge, and he doesn’t think about how many times he thinks that Lio is beautiful. Galo is good at this, at setting everything else aside to stay in motion.

Dian collects them eventually, once both of them are soaked in sweat and even Galo’s energy is starting to flag a little. It’s after dark when they get outside, with the storefronts throwing a pale glow over the dull concrete. “Thank you both for inviting me,” Galo says again, and means it; his muscles ache in a way that feels like lingering joy, and he’ll have blisters tomorrow but that’s the sign of a good day.

“Of course, our pleasure,” Dian says; Lio just bumps him gently as they walk. He’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder, and the sleeve thwaps into Galo’s arm.

Lio’s quiet as they get into the car; he plugs his iPod into the speakers and then leans his head against the window, yawning. He catches Galo looking and smiles at him, relaxed and sleepy, before he goes back to staring out at the streetlights flicking past outside. Galo shrugs and turns to his own window, gazing at the bright Promepolis neon in the distance off the highway, just visible past all the forests and the fields.

A few songs go past, and then Galo recognizes the guitar track thrumming through the car. _When the lights go out, will you take me with you, and carry all this broken bone?_ “Hey, Lio, didn’t you guys sing this one too?” he asks. No answer. “Lio?” He frowns; Lio is still slumped against the window. “Lio?” He leans over; Lio’s eyes are closed, eyelashes soft against his cheek, mouth slack and lips half-parted.

“Is he asleep back there?” Dian asks.

“It looks like it, yeah.”

“He does this every time we go,” she says, with a smile in her voice that Galo recognizes. Her crisp British vowels sound nothing at all like how Tialma talks, but somehow, anyway, she sounds like Tialma. The streetlights play over Lio’s face, and it’s really amazing how delicate he looks, how soft and unprotected. There’s no sign of his strength in sleep; so much of it is in his will, in his endurance and his fire. Burning, unconquerable soul.

“I’m glad you came with us today,” Dian says, with a kind of quiet honest seriousness that Galo doesn’t hear a lot from grown-ups. “I’m glad Lio has you for a friend his own age. He’s seemed happier since you started hanging out.”

“I —” Galo swallows. His eyes burn a little, teary — good tears, happy ones, but still kind of inconvenient. Just, a whole lot has happened today, and Lio spends too much time being unhappy. “I’m glad too,” he says. “I like him a lot, Miz Dian.” His voice is a little rough. “So much. I’m going to be the best friend he’s ever had.” _I think I want to kiss him. I think I want to punch everyone who’s ever hurt him. I think maybe the best thing I’ve done in my life yet is make him smile. I’m going to do more things, obviously, but I think that might be where I start the list._

“I’m sure you will,” she says. He can kind of see her face in the rearview; her mouth has gone thin and unhappy again. “He puts on a good face, but I think he needs one.”

“Meis and Gueira like him,” Galo offers. “And I know he cares a lot about the ducklings. But — yeah. He could probably use more friends.” He sighs. “People are jerks to him.” He looks over at Lio again, looking like a blown-glass fairytale with his hair drifting over his face. “He’s really tough, though.”

“Moms don’t want their kids to have to be tough,” she says softly.

“Tialma would say I was tough by the time I got to her, I think,” Galo says, equally softly. “So I don’t really know.”

“I’ve always liked Alma,” Dian says, not quite an answer. “I’m not surprised her kid’s like you.”

“Thanks,” Galo says, meaning it. “She’s really great.”

“Yup.” She smiles, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m glad he’s got you looking out for him.”

“Always,” Galo promises. “As long as I have eyes.”

* * *

The TV is on when Galo lets himself into the house. It casts flickering blue light over the living room, and he can hear the soft sound of Tialma snoring. He knows she likes her job, knows she’s glad to be out of family practice and working with people on the edge of need — she’s every inch the rescuer he wants to be, in her own quiet way — but the hours are not awesome, especially not this first year. It’s the other reason she waited this long to take this gig; she wanted to be sure he’d be able to get around on his own. (The first reason is that she didn’t want to move, not until they had the papers signed for him.)

He loves her so much. It’s like everything is heightened, right now, like he realized how he feels about Lio and now it’s spilling over and he notices all the love he feels for everyone. He’s so, so lucky to have her, after years of shuffling around, being sent onward and left behind.

“You’re the best, Tialma,” he tells her softly, and pulls the afghan up over her shoulders. Their couch is awesome and squashy and all right to sleep on, specifically picked out that way because she does this all the time. She’s not an easy woman to wake, but he tiptoes upstairs anyway.

He pushes his bedroom door shut behind him, flops facedown onto the bed, shoves his face into his pillow, and screams for a while.

He’s not even mad! He’s not sure _what_ he’s feeling right now except that there sure is a fucking lot of it, but screaming seems like a start.

It helps a little. He’s feeling kind of better by the time he has to lift his head to breathe, anyway. He rolls over onto his back, stares up at the mottled popcorn-pattern of his ceiling, and says out loud, “What the fuck.”

So: he likes Lio so much. He wants to kiss him so badly. He wants to hold his hand and touch his hair and make him smile and tell him how great he is, all of the time. That should be simple and easy and right and only kind of frightening because Galo could drown in the liking, but there’s the big inescapable stupid thing, which is: all of that is pretty not-straight stuff. Which means that Galo is probably also not-straight.

Galo is usually pretty good at not overthinking things, but _everyone else in the world_ thinks about this way too much and makes it way too complicated, and the weight of all their thoughts presses down on Galo until he has to think about it too. And it fucking sucks.

There’s no shame in calling for backup.

Galo hauls himself off the bed with all the enthusiasm of a Monday morning and yanks open the bottom drawer of his dresser. Tucked safely at the back is an extremely battered stuffed Dalmation. He was once very crisp and bright-eyed and neatly spotted, but he was also a gift from Galo’s first foster parents, years even before Tialma. Now he’s mostly gray, with a chip in his plastic nose and one ear held on with careful inexpert red stitches.

“Hey, Matoi,” Galo says softly, and flops back on the bed with the stuffed dog settled in the middle of his chest. Being made of polyester, Matoi is a very good listener.

“This is bullshit,” he says quietly, fiddling with Matoi’s good ear. “This is such bullshit, buddy. I was _happy._ It was a really nice day. I shouldn’t be worrying about it and it _sucks_.”

He’s usually so good at not worrying about stuff. But he’s usually good at knowing what he wants, too, and now there’s apparently this whole category of want that he’s been carrying around maybe his whole life, and he’s never really noticed it! And maybe he didn’t want some of the things — some of the people — he thought he wanted? Or maybe he did?

Galo’s not, like, a playboy, but he dated Renee Howell for a little while in middle school, and Niva Jones for a couple months at the beginning of last year, and he had a little bit of a thing with Syrene at summer camp for a while. It all felt… well, it didn’t exactly feel the way he feels about Lio, but he’s sure as hell never felt like this about any guys before either. _That,_ he would have noticed.

Maybe it’s just that he and Renee were thirteen, and he knew Syrene for two weeks and exchanged a couple of postcards with her. And Niva was cool and all, but she was all caution and flowchart-thoughts. If someone was being a jerk, Niva would smile sweetly in his direction and slide everyone else out of his way, and then arrange her life so she never had to go near the jerk again. Which, you know, works sometimes — she would not have screwed up that thing with Thyma way back on the first day of school, probably — but she and Galo were driving each other nuts by the end of October. (They’re still friends on Facebook, though; they chat sometimes.) She’s her own kind of strong, and a great person, but there was nothing about her that Galo ever wanted to be _like._

Lio is brave and kind and stubborn in the exact way that Galo tries to be.

So: maybe it’s not that Galo’s not into girls, or more into guys, or whatever. It might just be so intense this time because he’s never met anyone else like Lio.

“Okay,” he says to Matoi, “I’ve definitely never met anyone else like Lio.” Matoi’s glassy plastic eyes look patiently back.

So that’d make him… bisexual, maybe? Galo wrinkles his nose. It’s the exact kind of word that usually makes him prop his head on his arms and doze off, figuring he’ll wake up when someone’s ready to tell him what to actually do about it. That’s who Galo is, he _does_ stuff. He doesn’t sit around slapping fancy science words on things.

He could go kiss Lio, or something, but that feels like… well, not like it actually does anything about what Galo _is_ , exactly. What he is is a firefighter (aspiring), and a Thymos, and Tialma’s son, and a guy with a soul as bright as fire, and everything else could be measured by what he actually _did._ But he could never kiss Lio ever, or Lio could be totally uninterested, or Lio could move away tomorrow, (he ignores the sharp one-two-three stab through his chest, for now, but _wow_ that hurts), and this thing would still be here.

And _this_ is so many things: ballot questions and debates in Civics class and the guys on the team yelling “that’s so _gay”_ back and forth a thousand times a practice. This is parades and rainbows and jokes and history and like, the AIDs crisis, and just. Way, way too much extra _stuff_ casting a shadow over the fact that Galo likes the way the light falls on Lio’s bare collarbones and that he kind of can’t look away from Lio’s mouth, especially when he smiles.

Galo drags Matoi over his face and groans into the faded fur. It feels like he should know what to call himself. It feels like he should be more sure about all of this than he is. He can ignore people, even if there’s a lot of jerks to ignore, but it’s kind of hard to stand up in front of the whole world and say “Fuck off, I don’t care what you think, I’m Galo Pérez Thymo and I’m… uhhhhhh…. gimme a second.” He’ll do it if he has to, but like, he’d _rather_ be sure.

Because that’s what it is, really. It’s easy to get as far as how Lio is awesome, and he can’t stop there because the world is stupid, and after that he gets lost. This is a whole lot that’s all happening in Galo’s head and that’s not how Galo figures anything out; what Galo does is _try things._

He really, really wants to go for a run right now. But it’s like — he checks the clock — eleven o’clock, wow, yeah, he’s been lying here for a while. Tialma won’t even kill him if he goes out; she’ll turn gray and grab at his hands and say _Galito, please, I need you to come home safe._ It makes him feel like the worst person on earth when she does that, and he’s not going to do it unless he has a really super-urgent reason.

There’s… okay, there’s a fairly obvious way to burn off some energy _and_ actually do something that might help him figure all of this out, instead of just lying here looking up at the ceiling.

“Okay, buddy,” he says to Matoi, giving him one last squeeze for luck. “You don’t need to see this.” He tucks Matoi back in the dresser for the next emergency, flops back into bed, and then covers his hand in lotion and sticks it down his boxers.

Galo’s always been a fan of straightforward action.

Okay. Guys. Neat-trimmed beards, flat chests, big hands, the bob of an Adam’s apple, coarse body-hair under his palms, aftershave and Old Spice deoderant, dicks that aren’t his.

Nothing.

Galo scowls into the dark and scratches his balls while he’s got his hand down there anyway. Okay, just to check: girls. Long hair, lip gloss and flower-smelling soap, soft giggling, Victoria’s Secret type lace, curves, the squish of breasts pressed up against him.

Extremely similar nothing.

So, that’s a no on disembodied body parts, especially when he’s already kind of his own head. Super useful. Great.

He squirms to a more comfortable spot in his mattress (he maybe spent… a lot of time jumping on it, after he was old enough to get way too heavy to do that) and: so, specifics. Which… yeah, there’s kind of one way to go here.

He rests his hand on top of his cock and thinks again about Lio in the rink light, in his element, bright and happy and shining. The easy way Lio lifted him, the wiry cords of his arm. The way Lio could have, if he wanted, skated back against the wall and towed Galo in close to him. Or he could have pushed Galo back and pinned him there against the concrete, and Galo would never know if he could move or not because he would never try.

Yeah, okay, his cock is on board now.

Lio’s quiet when he’s happy, but that time in the basement, working the tension out of his shoulders, he was loud then. Would he be quiet, if Galo touched him, with lots of little sighs and smiles Galo would have to pay attention to catch, or would he groan under Galo’s hands like he had with the massage? Or would he start quiet and get loud?

Galo’s breathing a little harder, now, and the questions are dissolving into just: _would he like it if I touched him_? If Galo touched Lio’s hair, or the sharp proud line of his throat. His shoulders, with all the strain he carries in them, the way Galo already knows the blades would fit against his palms. His wrists, if Galo ran his thumb under the leather bracelets to touch soft skin and sure muscle — the back of his neck, where he flushes when he’s angry — if Galo followed the long dip of his collarbone under a loose shirt — if Galo caught him by the waist, if he let Galo pick him up and feel how slight he is, feel how delicate he seems and know how much it’s a lie, if he — if he —

Even thinking about what Lio’s cock might look like is enough for him to gasp and bury his face in the pillow, turned on and embarrassed and just, too much. But his cheekbones, and his stomach, his shoulders that Galo never even saw before today — that tiny little mole on his neck that maybe no one else at school even knows about, where Galo wants to kiss him just because of that — the way his hair sticks to his face when he’s sweating, and how easily he flushes, and his mouth, tiny and expressive and pink —

— and the way his mouth might feel on Galo —

— _fuck_ —

Galo blinks his eyes open in the darkness, gasping for breath.

Okay. So. Yeah.

Guys: yes. Gonna go with yes. And that felt pretty much the same as jerking off while thinking about, like, Kiera Knightley, or Sirene, except for the wistfulness that stays with him afterward. So: girls, probably still yes.

Gay masturbation: exactly the same kind of messy as straight masturbation. Or maybe it’s all been bisexual masturbation and it’s all the same kind of messy as itself?

Words for it: still bullshit. Mess: not awesome.

Also, he skated a lot today, and then freaked out a lot, and now he’s covered in cooled sweat and kind of really gross.

He drags himself into the shower and by the time he’s done he’s barely awake enough to get himself back in bed, so at least his head has quieted down. That’s something, right?

* * *

Tialma’s already at work by the time (11:45) that Galo wakes up the next day. Which. He wants to see her really badly, right now! He’s glad she was asleep when he came in, but like. Now he wants to talk.

It’s not like this is urgent enough to call her to come home, though, so it’s time to rattle around the house for hours. He wants to go running, but he played a football game and then he skated top speed for like five hours, and even for him that’s kind of a lot for two days. Also, even with his skates as tight as he could get them, they rubbed in places that are _not remotely_ like normal-people shoes. Galo’s blisters are the size of quarters and really impressively gross, and popping them is very satisfying but only eats up like, five minutes.

Absolutely fucking none of his homework is getting done today except maybe some of his English reading. He didn’t do any yesterday either, so tonight is going to suck, but he’s just going to have to deal with that.

He rakes up the leaves in the backyard. He does his laundry, partly to have something to do and partly because his boxers are kind of embarrassingly trashed. He watches two and a half minutes each of seven different TV shows, chucks the remote back into the couch cushions, and stomps out to go for a run after all.

Even with his _really shit_ pace, it only eats up so much time before his body just hurts. He gets home, showers again, does not jerk off thinking about Lio a second time even though he kind of wants to, and rattles back out into the living room. He doesn’t like _waiting._

He’s slumped at the kitchen table, gazing out the window at the backyard, when he hears Tialma pull into the drive. And apparently all kinds of stupid stuff is happening in his head today, because he’s been waiting all _day_ for her to get home, but the sound hits him like ice water over his head.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says, bustling into the kitchen, and drops her purse on the kitchen table. “What’s up? Have fun yesterday?”

“I kind of need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh.” She goes still, for a moment, and pulls out one of the other chairs. “Okay, Galito. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s wrong! Just, um —” He’s going to spend his life running into fires, he can totally do this. The fires might be a little easier, though. He picks at a knot in the wood of the table. “So. I think I have a crush on a guy?”

There’s a long, hovering silence, and then the scrape of Tialma’s chair. There’s a second where Galo kind of can’t breathe, and then her arms settle over his shoulders, her face pressed against his hair.

“Okay,” she says softly. “I didn’t have a plan for what to say to that, but I’m not gonna leave you sitting there in silence while I think about it, so we’re gonna do this for a while.” She kisses the top of his head. “You look scared, Galito. Tell me what’s scaring you.”

“It’s okay?” Galo asks, a little raspily. “You don’t mind?”

“ _Mind_? Absolutely not. Not even a little,” she says. “I don’t — mmm, no, not that I don’t care. But this is one of those things that — however much it matters to you, that’s how much it matters to me, and not the tiniest bit more.” She squeezes him tight, crushing and close. “Whoever you bring home, make sure they make you happy. That’s the only thing I want. I mean, I’d _rather_ they didn’t drive me nuts, but for you I’ll put up with anybody. Just as long as they’re good to you. Man, woman, whoever, it’s not gonna make any difference to me.”

Galo leans back against her shoulder. “Thanks, Tialma.”

“For what?” she says, with a thread of real anger. “This is bare minimum stuff, kiddo. Bare fucking minimum.” Tialma has never cared if he swears around her, but she doesn’t do it casually herself. He’s only heard her say _fuck_ a few times. “Absolute bare fucking minimum. You’re my kid. Wanting you to be happy and yourself is the most basic part of the job.” She squeezes him again, doing her damndest to crush him. “You’re not allowed to give me points for this. No arguments, now.”

“Okay,” he says, laughing. It’s maybe a little sniffly but it’s Tialma, she doesn’t call him on this stuff. “You’re still the best, though.”

“As long as it’s a general note,” she says, and kisses his hair one more time before she slides back into her own chair. “So. Do I get to know who it is?”

“Yeah!” Galo says, because of course he would tell Tialma that, and then feels his face go brilliantly flushed because that’s going to involve actually saying it out loud. “You know Lio Fotia?”

“Ahhh,” she says, nodding. “You never bring him around, you know.”

“He always suggests his house!” Galo protests, because it’s true. “So I mean, why not go? I’m here all the time, I _live_ here.”

“Can’t fault that logic,” she says, smiling. “But I’d like to get to know him better.”

“We’re not dating!” Galo clarifies quickly. “I just — I like him so much, Tialma.” It comes out helpless, but he can feel a smile taking over his face at the same time. “So much.”

“Then he’s lucky as lucky gets,” she says, and gets up to grab the jar of sun tea off the windowsill. She pours them both a glass, sliding Galo’s over to him and leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Are you gonna tell him?”

There’s no judgment in it, he knows that. She just wants to know. “Probably?” Galo says. “I kind of just realized last night.” He squirms a bit. Normally he doesn’t mind people calling him stupid — he sees things his way, sometimes that involves not looking at risks, it’s fine — but this one feels kind of raw and tender. But she only nods, taking a long sip of her tea.

“Okay,” she says. “Well, if it goes badly, I’ve got ice cream and movies. Or you can vanish into your room for a weekend and I won’t complain about how loud you play your music, if that’s what you wanna do.”

“Definitely not that one, I’d get so bored,” he says.

“Good point, that’s not you. It was me when I was twenty-three, though.” She scruffs her hand through his hair, _disrupting the spikes again, those took a lot of work,_ but you know what — he’ll let it go this time. “Not my best weekend.” She hesitates, her hand coming to settle on his shoulder. “Anything else you want me to know about this, Galito?”

“Uh…” He takes another drink of tea. “I don’t think it’s _just_ guys? Probably it could be anybody, I think. As long as they’re people I like.”

“Good to know,” she says, nodding seriously. “Do you want me to keep my mouth completely shut, tell everybody so you don’t have to, only tell people if it comes up… it’s up to you, kiddo. All your call.”

There’s only one answer it could ever be, at least for him. Galo’s worn his heart on his sleeve his entire life, outlined in flashing lights so everyone can see it. “Tell people,” he says. “If it comes up. I don’t want it to be a secret.” He makes a face. “I don’t know what to call it yet, though. Bisexual, I guess?” The word still feels wrong in his mouth, more like a chapter in Bio class than anything to do with him.

“Then I’ll tell people you like both and you’re working on the name,” she says. “If they ask how you’re doing or if you’re seeing anybody. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” he says, and drains his tea. “Hey, Tialma?”

“Mmm?”

He stands up and wraps his arms around her, squeezing tight enough to lift her a couple inches off the ground. “Love you,” he says, into her hair.

“Oxygen,” she squeaks, but she squeezes him back just as tight. “Love you too. I’m proud of you, Galito. I’m proud of the man you’re growing into. And thank you for telling me.”

“Of course,” he says. “Of course.”

If he’s a little choked up, that’s fine. This is a pretty good time for it.

* * *

That night does, in fact, involve a hellish amount of homework. Galo spreads everything out on the kitchen table and sets his music on, humming to himself. Between algebra problems he daydreams, which is pretty normal, but today there’s kind of a recurring theme. With green hair and a tiny, beautiful smile.

His Spanish homework is a paragraph about what he did this weekend, which — yeah he’s going to leave some things out here. Also:

“Hey Tialma!” he calls into the living room. “Cómo me digo roller skates?”

“I think you just said you’re talking to yourself, there?” she calls back. “Not sure. Just digo, though. And uhhh… pat… patines! Patines, uh, patines de ruedas? Probably? Patines are just skates, I know that.”

“Sweet, thanks!” Galo shouts. Tialma’s Spanish got rusted up and stuck for a few years there, but she’s been scraping back what she can. She knows when a sentence sounds wrong, even if she usually can’t explain the why of it. (Sometimes her phrases make Señora sigh and say _yes, someone would say that, but it’s technically not right,_ and then usually give Galo at least half credit.) He chews the end of his pencil, gets a few more sentences down — he’s not sure he wants to try and figure out a new verb or what kind of conjugation you call _went roller-skating_ so he goes with _nosotros fuimos a usar patines de ruedas_ , and hopes for the best _—_ and mutters “Stupid fucking preterite,” a whole bunch of times.

He’s partway through writing about how Lio taught him to skate (and doesn’t have to decide whether or not to write about how Lio looked beautiful doing it because he’s not actually sure _mirar_ works that way) when it occurs to him that he actually has Lio’s number now, and they haven’t been texting and they totally could have been. He slides his phone open to the keyboard immediately.

_Hi lio!_

His phone buzzes a few painstaking sentences later. _Ur need to say hi to me is getting out of hand_. A few seconds later: _Im @ band practice w m+g hi._

Galo would so much rather be over there, watching him play. (And not the only straight guy in the room after all, huh, weird thought. Would it feel different?) He answers instead: _Im doing hmwrk n i realized i have ur number now whyd you never give it to me anyway_

 _U didnt ask._ Another message comes in while Galo is staring at this one in deep-seated offense: _N I have like 2 texts/month rn n didnt want to use all of thm up in 2 days txting w u._

Galo squeaks indignantly and buries his face in his forearms, bright red. Holy shit, having a crush is so much harder when you know that’s what it is, and also when the person you’re crushing on is secretly the sweetest guy in the world.

“You okay in there, kiddo?” Tialma calls.

“Lio’s texting me cute stuff and it’s not fair!”

Tialma’s laugh rolls through the house, warm and kind and not even a little bit helpful.

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Galo mumbles, and picks up his phone again. _Ok I wont text much more just wanted to say hi see u tmrw n have fun at band practice_

The answer is immediate: _Will do see u tmrw._ Galo wonders if he was smiling when he sent it, if his hair’s in his eyes again, if he’s still got his guitar slung around his neck or if he put it aside to check his phone.

He’s _definitely_ going to fess up to Lio tomorrow. He’s not going to be able to stand not doing it for long. And besides — if Lio does want to be his boyfriend, they might as well start as soon as possible, right?

Galo scrolls back up a few messages. _I didn’t want to use up all of my minutes texting with you,_ Lio said, like if he started texting Galo he wouldn’t be able to stop. Like Galo was something too good for just a taste.

…Whoa, uh, dangerous image there.

Galo thunks his head gently against the table, pulls his Spanish paragraph over, gives it another glance, and then writes in very big letters, _Y ahora escribo este!_ It’s close enough to a page. Belatedly, it occurs to him that he could have just written about the football game; they’ve covered el fútbol americano a whole bunch in class, he knows all the words he needs for that.

Eh, too late now. Writing about Lio is more fun anyway.

* * *

It takes way too long, but eventually he manages to get all his work done and shoved into his bulging backpack. He’s just crawling into bed when he sits straight up, remembering something from weeks ago.

“Okay, where the fuck,” he mumbles, dragging open his nightstand drawer. He digs around through spare aux cords, receipts, an ace bandage, seven billion sweatbands, exactly one sock, and an inch-long pencil before: yup, right there. A little coil of color — Lio’s pride bracelet, the one Galo kind of accidentally stole.

Galo wraps it carefully around his left wrist and lays the ends over each other. It’s plenty long enough; Lio must trim the tails a little.

The moment is kind of ruined when it takes him like five minutes to get it tied properly and he ends up having to use his teeth, because sometimes nobody including the universe appreciates the importance of looking cool, but still. He gets it on eventually, settled snug against his skin. It’s loose enough to slide two fingers under — important for blood flow! — and the texture is the kind of soft-rough that he’s going to enjoy rubbing against his skin in quiet moments, and the color is a bright brave shout for anyone to see.

He’s Galo Pérez Thymos, and he is definitely some kind of not-straight, and he has a crush on the coolest guy in the world, and any stupid jerk who has anything to say about _any_ of that is just going to have to deal, because Galo’s never let the world dim his fire and he’s sure as hell not going to start now.


	7. treat me just like another stranger

Galo bounces into school humming under his breath, which even for him is a lot of energy for a Monday. Unfortunately, he also bounces in at 7:56AM, which means that Operation: Maybe Get to Kiss Lio is on hold until, at the very earliest, Algebra class. It is frankly a little weird to be looking forward to Algebra this much, but this is just gonna be a weird few days apparently.

Lio stumbles into third period literally as the bell is ringing, and drops his books on top of his desk with a resentful glower at absolutely everyone.

“I’ll let it go, Mr. Fotia,” Mr. Canicus says wearily, taking a long drink from his travel mug.

“I’m not late,” Lio bites out.

“Which is why I am letting it go. It’s a Monday, please sit down. Everyone get out your homework…”

Galo ignores his homework entirely to lean forward and tap Lio’s shoulder. “Hey, did something happen?” he whispers. “You look...” Still beautiful, but brittle, with the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual and — well, it might just be the usual tension back in his shoulders. Last time Galo saw him he was not just relaxed but straight-up asleep, after all. But it also might be worse than usual.

“I’m fine,” Lio says, stealing a glance back at him. Galo must look worried, because he says, “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Are you okay?” Galo whispers.

“What? Yeah, I forgot about the English paper until eleven-fifteen last night,” Lio whispers back.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Canicus snaps, glaring at them. “Your attention is supposed to be on _me,_ if you please.”

“Yeah, gentlemen,” one of the other guys mimics mockingly. “Stop paying attention to each other and pay attention to the teacher.” He manages to make _paying attention to each other_ sound dirty, because, you know, of course he does.

“Yeah, Thymos,” Vulcan mutters. “You’re giving him a lot of _attention_.”

“And what’s wrong with that?!” Galo snaps back only barely under his breath, at the same time as Lio hisses, “Is there something you have to say, Vulcan?”

“All of you in the back corner!” Mr. Canicus barks. “I don’t want to spend my lunch break watching you in detention. I assume _you_ don’t want to spend it _in_ detention. Please, for the love of God, all of you settle down and hand in your homework.”

There’s a general mutter and rustle of backpacks, but over it, Galo can definitely hear someone — and he’s pretty goddamn sure it’s Vulcan — muttering, “Whatever, faggot.”

If it’s aimed at Lio, he doesn’t even twitch, and that’s worse than just hearing it. If it’s aimed at Galo, well — whatever, it means somebody noticed the bracelet.

So, yeah: not an awesome start to the week.

Galo manages to catch Lio after class, lingering as everyone packs up their books. “Hi!” he says, leaning against the corner of Lio’s desk.

“If I had a dollar for every time you said hi to me,” Lio says, “I would have all of your money.”

“I’d keep doing it anyway,” Galo assures him. “You can have the money.”

Lio shakes his head, smiling. “You’re an idiot,” he says, but he says it in a way that pretty much warms Galo all the way down to his toes.

“We’re friends!” Galo says. “I’m saying hi!”

“You’ve been sitting behind me for forty-five minutes,” Lio says. “Hi.”

 _I want to be your boyfriend,_ Galo almost says, because Lio is smiling at him with this fond indulgent look like he’ll do a whole lot of stupid things just because Galo wants to, and some of the tension has left his shoulders just because Galo is talking to him, and he has pretty eyes, okay. But Mr. Canicus is right there at the front of the room still erasing the board, and anyone could walk in basically any second — freaking _Vulcan_ could, even — and they both have to get to fourth period. And Galo hates waiting, but like. If you mean something, you should do it right and in style, and if you don’t mean it, you shouldn’t do it.

Galo means this.

“See you at lunch,” he says, and Lio’s lips quirk.

“I’ll be sure to say hi,” he says.

Galo flicks him on the nose and bolts out to Chemistry, dodging the eraser that Lio chucks after him.

* * *

“Hey, Aina,” Galo says, leaning over the lunch tale to tap her shoulder. “Have you seen Lio around?”

“Lio Fotia? No I haven’t, why?” Aina asks, blinking at him. “Wait, where’s your lunch?”

“I’ll get it later,” Galo says, “I need to ask him something!”

“Whaddaya need to ask him?” Varys asks, distracted from where he and Lucia are trying to feed Jello to Vinny. (Vinny seems uninterested.)

“Uhhhh….” Galo glances around the table. The thing is that it’s kind of Lio’s business too even if he doesn’t know about it yet. “Tell you later!” he says, and trots off to try the courtyard.

Galo recognizes three of Lio’s ducklings — sweatshirt girl, brown hair guy, goth — but they’re the only ones out here. “Hey!” Galo says, sticking his head out the door. “Do any of you guys know where Lio is?”

“What’s it to you?” the goth girl asks, glaring at him. Jeez.

“Nah, it’s okay,” the guy says, “that’s Galo Pérez, he’s cool.”

“Galo Pérez Thymos,” Galo corrects, “but I am cool! Thanks, I’m sure you are too.”

“My family owns the pizza place,” the guy explains. “We’ve started just putting a margarita megamax in the oven as soon as we hear the football game’s over.”

“Oh, I _noticed_ you got faster,” Galo says. “Awesome, tell your dad thanks!”

“Buying a lot of pizza isn’t a character reference,” the goth mutters.

“Good tips are, though,” the guy says. The third girl is laughing into the hood of her sweatshirt.

“Anyway,” Galo says. “It’s Tialma’s money, but you guys make good pizza. So where’s Lio?”

“Out looking for Thyma,” the sweatshirt girl volunteers. “We don’t know where she is.”

“Huh.” Weird. “Do you know where he’s looking?”

“Probably C wing, it’s where her last class was,” the pizza kid offers.

“Cool, thanks! See you around!” Galo withdraws. This is starting to get silly. He was maybe a little bit nervous about asking Lio out, but he didn’t think the hard part would be _finding the guy in the first place._

It turns out he hears Lio before he sees him; his boots echo loud in the empty mid-period hallway. Galo half-jogs to catch up to him — not running in the halls! Just, you know, moving faster than a walk. “Lio! What’s up?”

“Galo.” Lio looks up, and: shit, he looks really worried. Galo wants to push his hair back out of his face, touch the tense little shape of his mouth, maybe squeeze his hand for a second. All of that is kind of getting into ask-first stuff, though, so Galo shoves his hands behind his back just so he isn’t tempted.

“Have you seen Thyma?” Lio asks.

“Nah, I haven’t,” Galo says. “Is it a big deal that you can’t find her? Like, maybe she’s just asking a teacher about something?”

“It’s a big deal,” Lio says, lips going thin. “If it were one of the others it would be one thing, but Thyma stays very close to the rest of us. Especially at lunch. It’s not just the usual suspects, some of the freshmen girls have been giving her shit too.”

“Oh, that sucks.” And sounds like a rescue might be needed. “Okay, your other ducklings said you were looking over here because that’s where her last class was, but she’s not here, right? So where would she go if something happened?”

“Good question,” Lio says, chewing on his lip. It’d be really distracting if there weren’t a rescue at hand; it’s still a _little_ distracting. “The nurse if she’s hurt. If she didn’t want to come to us, she must not want to be around anyone. The back computer lab, maybe? Or maybe the study pods in the library?” No one uses the back computer lab for anything, because it’s tiny and out of the way of everything and has the oldest crappiest machines.

“If she’s with the nurse she’s gonna be okay,” Galo says. “Or, I mean, she’s already safe. So the computer lab or the library first?”

“Library’s on the way,” Lio says, and sets off. Galo falls into easy step beside him.

The library pods are an easy place to hide: a long row of cubicles behind the 900 shelves, well away from the library desk. They haven’t even rounded the gotten to the end of the row before Galo can hear someone crying on the other side of the books. Lio closes his eyes for a half-second, grimacing, and then shoves ahead of Galo. It doesn’t stop Galo from following.

Thyma is slumped in the third pod, hands over her face, her shoulders shaking with every sob. It sounds like she’s been crying for a long time, miserable and low and hopeless.

“Thyma,” Lio says, leaning against the pod’s divider, and she starts. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her nose is running, and she’s _covered_ in rivulets of sticky brown — it’s ruining her hair, streaked all over her face, spattered all over the white front of her tank top. “What happened?”

“What _is_ that?” Galo adds, peering over Lio’s shoulder. “What happened to you?”

“I — it’s Coke,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes. It doesn’t really help. “Um. Diet. It…”

No one spills anything on top of their own head. Okay, actually, Galo managed it once, but that was a special circumstance and also it was really funny. Thyma doesn’t seem like she’d do that kind of thing, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make anyone cry like this. Lio must be thinking the same thing, because he bites out, “Who was it?”

Her eyes dart to Galo.

“It’s okay,” Lio says, seeing this. “He’s… he’s a friend.”

“Hey,” Galo whispers. “You had to think about it?!”

“Not the point right now, Galo,” Lio says, and perches on the edge of the desk. “Thyma. I’m not a teacher. Who did this to you?”

“It was Vulcan,” she whispers. Lio hisses in between his teeth.

“That _asshole_ ,” Galo says. Thyma shakes her head a little.

“I don’t… I don’t think he meant to,” she says. “He… he was teasing me with it and someone bumped him, I don’t think he meant to actually do it.”

“I don’t care,” Lio says. His hand is on the back of his knee, and his fist is clenched so tight his knuckles pop white even with how pale he always is.

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter,” Galo agrees. “I kind of feel like you weren’t laughing, and besides, you know what I’d do if I was teasing someone and I accidentally spilled Coke all over them?! _Help you clean up._ What a jerk. I bet he didn’t grab you napkins or anything.”

“It… it’s not that,” Thyma says, and swallows hard. “I mean, it is, but I can… it’s…” She points up, sniffling again.

The study pods all have a high shelf a few inches below the top of the cubicle walls, on top of a long fluorescent light. People use them for extra books and stuff, maybe. Galo hadn’t been looking at the shelf because, you know, crying person, but he does now, and: yikes. It’s covered in what looks like it was once notebook paper, with tiny precise handwriting on the few dry patches. It’s so soaked that Coke is seeping off it into little pools on the shelf. Galo can’t make out more than a couple of words.

From the look on Lio’s face, he didn’t notice this till now either.

“My backpack was open,” Thyma whispers. “I had my essay on top, and it…”

“Oh no,” Lio says quietly. “Did you have another copy?”

“This was the rough draft.” Tears well up in her eyes again. “It’s due today.”

“For what class?” Lio asks.

“Yeah,” Galo says, “I’m sure we can work something out!” Either she’s right at the verge of failing, like he was before he figured out the audiobooks thing, or she’s like Aina and she really really cares about her grades, but clearly this is not just one missed homework assignment that she can shrug off like Galo probably would.

“Civics,” she whispers, and Galo can see Lio’s jaw go tight. “With Coach Kray, and he doesn’t accept late work.”

“I see,” Lio says, in a voice like iron.

“Oh, that’s fine!” Galo says, at almost the same time. “It’ll be okay, I can just go talk to him!”

“Galo,” Lio says, as Thyma’s mouth forms a hopeful O.

“Really?” she asks, voice horribly small.

“No, wait up —”

“Yeah, definitely,” Galo promises, straightening up. “I’ll go right now.”

“Galo, _hold on,_ ” Lio says, grabbing his arm. Which, maybe nice, but, not the time! Rescue ongoing! So he has to pull away.

“I don’t mind,” he promises Lio, and then to both of them, “I’ve got this. Be right back!” He snaps a salute and dashes off, settling into a steady jog after a couple of steps because Coach Kray doesn’t like running in the hallways.

He’s halfway to the end of the wing when he hears a thunder of combat boots behind him. “Galo!” Lio bolts in front of him, skidding on the tiled floor. “Galo, _wait_.”

“What?” Galo demands, slowing to a stop mostly so he doesn’t run Lio over. “It’ll be okay, I’ll fix it.”

“No, you won’t,” Lio says. “It’s _not going to work,_ he’s not going to listen to you, and now you’ve gotten her hopes up just to crush her again.”

“Why won’t it work?” Galo protests, hands held out for an answer. “It’s not her fault, she had the essay done!” Lio’s holding some of the dripping pages, actually. “I’ll just explain to Coach Kray what happened. It’s not like she was being lazy, it was just an accident! He’ll understand.” He tries to move around Lio, but Lio just takes a short half-step to the side, right back in his way.

“He won’t give a single shit, Galo,” Lio says, glowering up at him.

“Yes he will! Look, I don’t know what your problem with Coach Kray is, but —”

“ _This_ is my problem with him!” Lio barks, gesturing back at the library doors. He does it with the hand holding Thyma’s essay, and a few more drips of Coke fly across the hall and spatter onto the floor. “This is my problem, right here. This is what he does and this is what his players do —”

“He didn’t have anything to do with this!”

“Oh, _didn’t he?”_ Lio bites out. “Do you think Vulcan would have done this if anyone had ever stopped him before? You should have seen the football players who graduated last year. Vulcan learned all his tricks from them. The whole team —”

“Hey!” Galo protests, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “I’m on the team still! And there’s Ignis, there’s no way he’s ever —”

“Ignis never did me any good, either,” Lio cuts him off, taking a sharp step into Galo’s space. “Besides, do you think Thyma would be crying in the library if it was a paper for Mrs. Renata?” Mrs. Renata, Galo vaguely knows, teaches the other half of freshman Civics. “No, she wouldn’t. Because Mrs. Renata doesn’t take every chance she has to punish the people she’s supposed to teach —”

“That’s not what’s Coach Kray is like at all!” Galo protests frantically, because _what?_ “He wants us to be _better,_ he has high standards, but that’s just because he wants us to be our best.”

“Oh, _come on,_ ” Lio says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Is that Vulcan’s best?” Lio demands, waving Thyma’s ruined work in Galo’s face. His voice is low and horrible and simmering-steady. “Is that _Thyma’s_ best? Really?”

“Of course it’s not! And that’s why he’s going to do something about it, Lio, don’t you see? I know he will.”

“No, he won’t,” Lio says, advancing another half a step. His hands are tight fists; the paper is starting to tear. “He’s not going to do a damn thing, and he never will, because Vulcan makes him look good and Thyma is nothing to him, no matter how hard she works or how much she tries. Less than nothing. He’ll never admit Vulcan was at fault, no matter how unfair it is.”

“That’s _not true,_ ” Galo says, and it doesn’t come out quite as loud as he means it to, or quite as certain either. “He just doesn’t know what Vulcan’s really like! I’m sure of it!”

“He knows, Galo,” Lio snaps. “He knows exactly what Vulcan is like, because not everyone is as _stupidly naive_ as you are!”

It rings a little, in the hallway. Lio’s mouth is half-open and panting a little and it feels very horribly far away, like a pass slipping through Galo’s fingers, like smoke in the air.

Galo reaches out and grabs Thyma’s papers from Lio’s hands. Lio’s grip is loose enough to let him.

“You’re wrong,” he says, with all the heat that he has in him. “You’re wrong. I’m pretty stupid, but I’m not naive. I’m going to explain everything to him, and he’s going to do the right thing. Because he’s a good man, and you don’t know anything about him, and you’re being a nasty suspicious jerk.”

“I —” Lio starts.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Galo says, and walks away. Thyma’s essay is limp and sticky in his hand. There’s nothing but staring silence behind him, nothing but the muffled thud of his own footsteps against the floor.

* * *

The school is small enough that everyone including the teachers has the same lunch period, so Coach Kray’s classroom is empty when Galo bursts through the door. “Coach Kray!”

“…Ah,” Coach Kray says, looking up. He’s got his reading glasses on, rims bouncing the fluorescent light so it’s hard to see his eyes. “Hello, Galo. What is it? I’m afraid I am in the middle of grading…”

“It’ll be quick!” Galo promises. “It’s really important.” He weaves between the desks until he can drop the scattered pages of Thyma’s essay on top of Coach Kray’s desk.

“Galo, whatever that is, please don’t put it on top of my grade book,” Coach Kray says, nudging it away with the tip of his pencil.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Galo says, moving it quickly before it can more than smudge any of the other papers. “It’s just Coke, not anything grosser.”

“Is this… your work?” Coach Kray asks, turning one of the pages over. It’s got a little passage of Thyma’s handwriting. “This isn’t your handwriting. I can read it.” He chuckles.

“Aw, Coach, it’s gotten so much better,” Galo says, smiling. Already the world is settling back to how he knows it to be; this is the same Mr. Kray who helped him with his multiplication tables at the PYC, impatiently excited for Galo to understand. “No, it’s not mine — here —” He leans over, sorting the pages out a little better. “This is Thyma’s, you know her? I, uh, I don’t actually know her last name, but she’s a freshman, she’s in your civics class? Reddish-brown hair, kind of fluffy?”

“Hm, yes,” Coach Kray says. “Thyma. Yes, I do think I can remember her. I hope this isn’t her essay on separation of powers.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem!” Galo says. “I mean, it’s the one that’s due today, anyway. Is that what it was about?”

“It was,” Coach Kray says. “Unfortunate. Well, that won’t do her grade any favors, but she can make up some points on the final draft.”

“That’s the whole thing, though!” Galo says, since he kind of has the sense that making up points isn’t going to be enough for Thyma. “See, this wasn’t just her being careless. Vulcan was making fun of her, waving a bottle of Coke around over her head, like a jerk, and then it got all over her and it ruined her essay and it’s the only draft she has! So you’ll let her redo it, right?” He braces his hands on Coach Kray’s desk, grinning hopefully. “She just needs a couple of days, she probably remembers a bunch of it.”

“Dear me,” Coach Kray says, raising his eyebrows. “And did you see this happen, Galo?”

“I saw her afterward!” Galo explains. “That’s how I have her essay, see?”

“So you didn’t see it yourself,” Coach Kray says. “Did you get Vulcan’s side of the story?”

“Well… no, but… I mean, look at it!” Galo points. “And it was all over her, in her hair and ruining her shirt and everything. She was really upset. Come on, you understand, right?”

Coach Kray looks Galo over and sighs, and something cold lurches through Galo’s stomach. “I have a homework policy for a reason,” he says. “Some students will go to ridiculous lengths to avoid the consequences of not doing their work. Even if she is telling the truth, and I’m not convinced that she is, I still can’t grant her an exception. If I do, every other student will think that they can get one every time they can’t be bothered doing their work in a timely fashion. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the way of the world.” With a faint, displeased twitch of his mouth, he sits back in his chair.

“But _Coach,_ ” Galo protests. “She worked so hard! Look at how long it is!” He turns a page over. “She got it on both sides, see, _and_ her handwriting’s really little. I’m pretty sure there was a whole other page back at the library too! That _has_ to be worth something, right? You could give her some of the points, if you really can’t extend it!”

“A long essay is not the same as a good essay, Galo,” Coach Kray says wearily. “And it’s as easy to pour Coke over three pieces of paper as two, if she faked this.”

“She’s not faking!” Galo says. “I _promise,_ I just know she isn’t.” Okay, he doesn’t actually know Thyma that well, but Lio trusts her, and Galo trusts Lio — he really does, even if Lio’s being an asshole about this. Honestly, that just makes it likelier that Thyma’s trustworthy, if Lio can think the worst of someone like Coach Kray but he still believes her. “It’s really real, Coach, she’s not a liar, and she was such a mess and she was so upset. We don’t even have to tell people she got an extension, if you’re worried about other people asking. Come on, you’ve known me forever, right? You know I’m not going to cause trouble, or help out cheaters or anything! I just want to make sure she gets a fair chance.” His voice cracks a little. “Everybody deserves a fair chance, right?” It was the PYC motto, or one of them — it went through a few.

“Galo,” Coach Kray says, closing his eyes wearily, and pulls off his reading glasses. “Let me explain a few things to you. Starting with my plans for the future.”

“Uh,” Galo says. “Okay!” Kind of a weird way for the conversation to go, but all right, if Coach Kray wants to tell him about this, Galo’s always happy to know more about him. They’ll come back to Thyma’s essay later. He drums his fingers idly against the desk and listens.

“I mean to be superintendent of this district before I’m fifty,” Coach Kray says. “Which is still a while off yet —” he chuckles “— but not so far that I can afford to waste time. I want to make this district into something really great. I want competitive test scores. I want magnet schools, so the best students can learn without being held back by the uninterested and the unmotivated. And in order to do that, I need to plan ahead, and make sure I build myself a sterling reputation. Do you understand me, Galo?”

“Yes, Coach?” Galo says. He vaguely remembers hearing Tialma say something angry about magnet schools, one time, but he must be misremembering, or maybe she was only angry about a specific one and Coach Kray would run them better. “I know you’ll do it. You’ll be a great superintendent!”

Coach Kray smiles thinly. “Yes, well. The thing is, Galo, in order to do this, I need to guard my reputation very carefully. That’s why I need everyone to know that I won’t accept easy excuses or slacking off, that I will always demand the best from my students. That’s why I volunteer at the PYC, because a superintendent needs connections in the community. That’s why I coach the football team, and that’s why I need to make sure none of my players get caught up in any kind of scandal that might reflect poorly on me.” He gives Galo a meaningful look and then glances back down at the desk, mouth pursed.

“…Oh,” Galo says uncertainly. “But — won’t it show everyone that you’re fair and you do the right thing, if you give Thyma a break and tell Vulcan not to hurt people? That’s good! That’ll help your reputation too.”

“That’s not how these things work, I’m afraid,” Coach Kray says. “All anyone will see is the starting quarterback getting disciplined in the middle of the playoffs. If he misses any time, it _will_ be a scandal. The reasons don’t matter.”

“Who said anything about missing time?” Galo protests. “That’s not the important part! Thyma just needs help, that’s just being fair. How can it hurt your reputation to be fair?”

“That isn’t fairness,” Coach Kray says. He meets Galo’s eyes for a second, sharp blue and cold, and then turns his glare on Galo’s hands still braced against his desk. “It’s favoritism, plain and simple. And that’s an accusation I don’t need. I don’t need it over some histrionic freshman who leaves her soda bottles open around her essays, and I _certainly_ don’t need to be accused of it because some inner-city brat with ties to…” He clears his throat, still glaring at Galo’s hands. No, at Galo’s wrist. “With ties to controversial issues,” he says delicately, “decided years ago that I’m a decent substitute for all the foster parents who didn’t want him.”

Galo’s mouth falls open.

“I…” he says, and pushes Thyma’s essay forward again. It’s kind of hard to do; his fingers are shaking for some reason. Everything sounds very far away, and the coldness in his gut is spreading through the rest of him. “But… Coach…”

“Let me put this in terms you’ll be more able to understand, if that was perhaps a little too complicated,” Kray says, and his eyebrows snap together. “Get the hell out of my classroom and stop wasting my time, you stupid, infuriating little faggot. And _stop calling me by my goddamn first name._ I’ve always hated it.”

For the first time since he was eight years old, Galo turns and runs.


	8. not-o-fuckin'-kay

Galo goes to ground in the boy’s bathroom in the back wing, a whole lot of empty halls away from anyone. It’s right by the back computer lab, actually, so — good thing that’s not where Thyma hid, with all of this. Some rescue that would be.

Some rescue this is already

Galo barricades himself in the stall furthest from the door, curled up on the floor with his back against the wall and his arms wrapped around his knees. It’s not as gross as it could be, at least, since no one actually uses this bathroom. The grossest thing is Galo himself, with snot and tears smeared on his face and the backs of his hands and in little smudges on the knees of his pants.

It hurts like a physical thing, cracked and throbbing under his chest. That’s where Galo always pictured souls, whenever anyone talked about them: something bright and shining between your ribs, tucked safe under your heart. Galo doesn’t feel particularly burning or unconquerable now.

He’s known Kray Foresight for so _long._ Longer than Galo’s known anyone else who’s still alive, who Galo could go out and find. Because Kray’s not wrong, that there were a few years when there was no place Galo could settle for more than a couple of months. No family that kept him. Kray was the one fixed point he had.

Coach Kray doesn’t want him. Mr. Kray didn’t want anything to do with him.

When did it start? How _long_ has Kray thought he was pathetic, how long has Kray wanted him gone? Was he only ever an annoyance, right from the beginning?

He slams his hand into the wall; a dull thud echoes through the empty room. It stings. It doesn’t do anything.

He tried so _hard._ He sent fucking — Christmas cards, little start-of-year presents, each one a landmine buried in Galo’s memory and flaring into life. An essay, once, fourth grade. _Your personal hero_ , five paragraphs _._ Intro, conclusion, three reasons you admire them.Galo showed it off to Kray at the PYC so proudly, still remembers the stupid grade — 86, one of his better ones.

None of it good enough, apparently. He might as well not have fucking bothered.

How did he miss this? How did he miss this for so long?

Galo hiccups through another sob and tugs miserably at the bracelet on his wrist, twisting the cord between his fingers. _Inner-city brat._ Promepolis doesn’t even have an inner city. It’s not that big. There’s just the city.

_Stupid, infuriating little faggot._

It’s a sharp, jagged word; it feels like it should cut your mouth on the way out. It feels stuck somewhere in Galo’s head, or maybe like that’s what hurts in his chest, broken off somewhere in his breastbone. He can’t stop picturing the curl of Kray’s lip as he looked Galo over, as he glared at the rainbow wrapped around Galo’s wrist. It’s _wrong._ Kray shouldn’t have said that part to anyone. It’s got nothing to do with whether Galo annoyed him or not.

Another sob shakes out of him, aching and sore. He snaps the bracelet against his arm; the cord doesn’t snap very well, just kind of flops there. He gives it another sharp tug anyway, twists the slack up till it’s tight.

He didn’t think it would be easy. He just… he didn’t think it would be Coach Kray who looked at him differently. Although — heh — not that differently, apparently. Just differently enough that it wasn’t worth hiding his opinion anymore.

That’s another thing Galo apparently missed for all these years. That bitter, sneering twist to Coach Kray’s mouth, the cruelty in it.

Galo wouldn’t have _wanted_ his approval if he’d known. He wouldn’t have cared. So that should kind of balance out, right? He doesn’t want bigoted jerks to think well of him anyway. So if Kray’s nothing like the man he thought he was, that sucks, but at least it shouldn’t hurt that Kray never gave a shit about him. Right?

Another tear spatters against his knees.

It doesn’t help. It should, but it really doesn’t. It just hurts twice and it’s double the waste.

Or something. Math stuff.

His head feel stuffed, somehow; his nose and eyes are clogged up with crying, and his brain is slow and sticking as he tries to think. It means the next thing takes a while to come clear, and it drags another hitching, exhausted sob out of him when it does, because: Lio knew.

This is why he hates Kray, down at the root of it all. It has to be. And Lio never said anything, because… _why_?

There could be any number of reasons, and the one that settles like lead in Galo’s stomach is: if Lio thought that Galo already knew.

It can’t be that. Galo asked what it was way too many times. Lio _trusts_ him, at least a little bit. He trusted him enough to let Galo hear him sing and come to his house and be there when Lio peeled off a little of his dented, pitted armor. He can’t have thought that Galo knew.

But he was right, in the hallway. He tried to warn Galo, and Galo didn’t listen, and it happened exactly like he said it would. Galo is going to have to apologize to him, and more than that, he’s going to have to apologize to Thyma. That one’s going to be even worse, because with Lio he was wrong, but Thyma? Galo failed her.

What did Lio tell her, anyway? Did he manage to warn her that Galo wasn’t going to be able to come through after all, or did she find that out when Galo didn’t come back?

Does she think he just ran off? He kind of did, but he doesn’t — he doesn’t think he can really stand up, right now.

What a fucking rescue. What a mess.

He gives his bracelet another doleful tug, and the bright threads snap.

“Fuck!” Galo whispers, jaw dropping; his voice shakes a little, not quite done crying yet. “Fuck, no no no no no, no, no, no,” scrabbling for the broken pieces. It fell onto his chest, at least, into the loose folds of his shirt, not onto the bathroom floor. “No, c’mon!” He didn’t want _this_ , wasn’t trying to break it — wasn’t giving up! Just…

“Come on,” he whispers, wrapping it around his wrist again. It’s a slack cord again, the original knot still holding. It was pretty loose — maybe if he lets it be a little snug, not too much, if he lets the tails on the knot be really short, if he’s more careful this time —

It takes work, but he manages to get it on again, get one tiny loop of knot re-tied. It’s probably not going to hold up for all that long, but it’s _something,_ at least. It’s still attached. Maybe he can find some tape later, or something.

His breathing has steadied out, but he still feels… gross. Gross as hell. And he’s not actually positive what time it is, or how long it is that he’s been back here. He’s pretty sure he heard the bell go off for end of lunch, which means he’s skipping the lab half of chemistry by accident. And next period is going to be — fuck. _Fuck._ History class. With Kray.

Maybe if he just… takes another couple of minutes. Figures out what to do.

So of course the bathroom door creaks open, so that’s really cool. Great timing.

Galo shoves himself to his feet, hand braced against the wall, because it’s going to look _really weird_ if he’s just sitting back here, and he would super like not to talk to anybody anybody, right now. Just for a couple of minutes more.

The room echoes with the clump of boots on tile, and Galo has a split stomach-dropping second of realization before Lio’s voice calls out, “Galo? Galo, are you in here?”

Galo’s chest does some kind of seizing thing that maybe wants to be one last lingering sob. He bites down hard on his lip, because Lio already sounds worried enough without that.

“Galo?” Lio repeats. “Is that you?”

Shit.

In an unusual strategy for him, Galo tries holding very very still. He just — he needs a _second,_ that’s all. Just a second. He spends so much of his life not needing any time; it seems fundamentally unfair that the world can’t spare him even a tiny moment when he needs one.

Lio’s footsteps echo through the bathroom, coming closer. Then they stop. “Galo?” he asks.

Before Galo can answer, the door creaks open again. A low roll of laughter slips into the bathroom, along with a rising smell of stale cheap weed. (Galo does not smoke! For the _record._ But he lived next door to some extremely obvious stoners for a while.) A soft, “Yo.”

“Hey, Fotia,” Vulcan’s voice says, and oh, fucking great, that’s exactly what they need right now. “The fuck are you doing back here?”

“None of your business,” Lio says, with a scrape of shoes on the floor.

“You fuckin’ someone in here?” someone else asks, because that’s _really original._ “That why you’re back here?”

“No,” Lio says. “ _I_ don’t use this as my personal fucking clubhouse. I’m looking for somebody.”

“To fuck?” someone else asks. Roych, maybe. There is a chorus of nasty snickering.

“Because no one’s seen him since lunch,” Lio says flatly. “And some of us care about our friends.”

“Oh, is that what you call it,” Vulcan says. “I’m sure you care about your _friend_ a whole lot.”

“I’m sure it’s a foreign concept to you,” Lio says tightly. “Are you going to piss and leave or not?”

“I’m not getting my dick out in front of you, fag.” That’s Vince. It’s a whole party back here.

“For God’s sake, don’t flatter yourself. I’m not interested in whatever half-inch you’re packing.” Galo almost laughs, but everything still feels kind of weighed-down and slow.

“What’d you say, you little bitch?” Vince demands. Footsteps scrape, basketball-shoe soft and combat-boot loud.

“I said that I’m not interested in your pathetically tiny cock,” Lio says. “You may piss in peace. You couldn’t pay me to touch you.”

“ _Ew,_ ” Vince gags, because apparently that’s the best he can come up with.

“Aw, don’t worry about it, Vince,” Vulcan says, sounding way more cheerful than he has any goddamn right to be. “We all know the only cock he’s after is Thymos’s. That’s why you’re back here looking for him, isn’t it?” He laughs. “What’s the matter, retard finally figure out what you’re really after and run away from you?”

Galo is already moving towards the stall door when he hears a grunt and a meaty _thunk._ Vulcan roars in fury, and then Galo is moving _fast._

The door opens on Lio surrounded and Vulcan doubled over, clutching his stomach; Galo is just in time to watch Lio ram the top of his skull into Vulcan’s face. Vince shouts, lunging for Lio, who slides under his arm as fast as a striking snake and slams his elbow into Vince’s chest. Right under the solar plexus, nice. He has to dodge sideways as Vince doubles over, and then Roych grabs Lio’s arm and twists hard. That’s when a scream tears out of Galo’s throat as he grabs Roych around the shoulders, hammering his fists on every inch that he can reach.

“What the fuck!” Roych yells, letting Lio go, which would be a great time for Lio to maybe _leave this fight,_ but what Lio does instead is step quicksilver-quick onto Vince’s unguarded side and nail him in the ribs, hitting something that makes Vince yell. And then Galo is moving too slowly and still tangled up in Roych, because there’s nothing he can do when Vulcan puts his head down and charges Lio like they’re in fucking football padding. The sinks rattle as Lio hits the wall.

“Let _go of him!”_ Galo roars, shoving Roych away. Lio is twisting like a cat. Vulcan has his arm pinned across Lio’s chest, across his _fucking throat what the hell,_ and Lio’s clawing at him, scratching lines of blood up his forearm. Vince grabs Lio’s left arm, twisting it in a way that arms really shouldn’t move, and that’s when Galo does his level fucking best to shove Vulcan’s face into the crook of his own elbow and haul backwards with all his strength.

Galo’s been doing the same damn drills as Vulcan and he is _totally fine_ with landing on the floor today if that’s what it takes to get Lio free. Vulcan staggers back in his grip, windmilling; his weight throws Galo off balance, and he starts to lose his grip, but that’s okay because Lio has space to move. There’s still Vince to deal with but Lio can totally get away from Vince, and that’s when the world goes kind of starry for a second in shooting glinting pain. Oh. Vulcan’s fist just landed square in Galo’s eye.

Vince is yelling, clutching at his — fingers? whatever works, Lio’s free, and that’s all Galo has the space to register before Vulcan is dragging him close by the shirtfront, snarling, “You fucking asshole —” Roych grabs Galo’s hair, making Galo’s eyes water even worse on top of the punch, and then Vulcan’s yelling loses all coherence and he drops half to the floor, clutching at his leg. Lio’s behind him, braced against the toilet stalls and just finishing a vicious kick to the meat of Vulcan’s thigh. He lunges forward to punch Roych square in the face, a sharp one-two that makes his grip on Galo loosen. Galo uses his newfound freedom to shove Vulcan in the shoulder, toppling him back and down so maybe he’ll stay _out of the fight_ this time, and then dodges a flailing blow from Vince. Galo’s vaguely aware of shouting voices, pounding feet, but he’s a lot more worried about Lio ducking gracefully under Roych’s furious grab for him — it gets him backed up against the urinals with nowhere else to dodge. Galo rushes Roych, shoulder down, not trying to hurt him but definitely wanting him to _move;_ he knocks half-into him, spinning him a little, and is recovering his balance when another, unaccounted-for pair of hands grabs Galo’s arms.

“Stop, stop, all of you stop!” a voice is calling, and Galo yanks half out of this new grip and then realizes that’s it’s Señora, who — what! She’s like seventy, what’s she doing breaking up a fight! The shock is enough to make him go still, and then stay still because he doesn’t want to _hurt_ her, and then other bodies are pouring past them, separating everybody out. None of them are Kray, thank God.

Everything falls into a panting, shameful quiet. Galo can still only kind of see, his eye is watering so badly. Mr. Canicus has hold of Lio, arms linked behind his back — what about his wrist? He got grabbed so many times, it looked like it hurt — and some of the other teachers, some of them people Galo doesn’t recognize, have hold of Vulcan and his crowd.

There’s a bruise high on Lio’s cheekbone that Galo didn’t see happening, somewhere in all of this. Vulcan is fucking trashed, his face a bloody ruin and his arm scratched up to hell. There’s blood on Galo’s arm that is probably from Vulcan’s nose; he’s almost sure that’s the source of the blood matted in Lio’s hair. Roych has red marks on his face that might have been Galo but might have been Lio; the total ruin of his hair is probably Galo, though. Vince is grimacing — he’s just held loosely by one shoulder, and he’s clutching his hand.

“I am,” Mr. Canicus pants, “absolutely _disgusted_ with all of you.”

* * *

They all get rotated in and out of the nurse’s office one by one. Galo gets ice pressed to his face and has to answer a ton of questions about his name and his birthday and whether he feels dizzy at all. He _doesn’t,_ but he does get halfway through his actual name and then go back to add the Peréz, which means the nurse gets really worried about concussions but it’s _only been his name for eight months,_ okay, he spent his whole life not having a middle name before that!

This does not get him out of lying on a bunk in a dark room for twenty minutes, resting an ice pack on his eye and going out of his entire mind with boredom. He can hear Vulcan having a very similar argument in the next room, too, which is just annoying. He does not want to hear Vulcan’s stupid voice right now, or basically ever again.

Vulcan sounds really nasal, though. Lio got him good.

He fiddles with the ice pack so much it probably just makes his eye hurt worse, but it’s the only thing he has to do with his hands.

Finally he hears voices outside: the vice-principal, saying, “Mrs. Thymos is here. Is he through concussion protocol yet?”

“She’s Miz Peréz!” Galo calls. The nurse’s sigh is loud enough to reach him.

“Yes, he is,” she says. “Well, in thirty-two seconds, which aren’t neurologically significant. And he sounds fine.”

“I’m fine!” Galo confirms.

“You may as well come out, then,” the nurse says wearily, and Galo punches the air in triumph.

Tialma is waiting in the hall outside the nurse’s office, still in her flowered scrubs. They must have called her out of work. She hisses when she catches sight of Galo, reaching up to turn his face to one side, then the other. “Ouch, kiddo,” she says, and glances over his shoulder. “Thank you for doing your diligence on concussions, I know it can’t have been easy to make him sit still.”

“It’s my job,” the nurse says, with a slightly pained smile, and closes the office door on the lot of them.

“So, Galo. What happened?” Tialma asks, as they set off towards the front office.

“We don’t need to discuss this in the hallway —” the vice-principal starts.

“There was a fight,” Galo says, shrugging. The whole school probably knows everything by now anyway. “Uh, I was in the bathroom behind the gym, and then Lio came looking for me, and then the other guys came in, and then there was a fight, and then the teachers came and stopped us. I missed some classes,” he adds. “I didn’t mean to! I just lost track of time for a little bit.”

“Uh-huh,” Tialma says, slowing to a halt.

“We do take matters like this very seriously —” the vice-principal says, apparently giving up on the hallway thing.

“I’m sure you do,” Tialma says, folding her arms as she stares up at him. “Could I get a moment to speak to my son in private, please?” She hits the emphasis on the _son_ extra hard, like she does when she’s worried someone will try to give her any crap about whether or not Galo is hers.

“Of course,” the vice-principal says, blinking. “I, ah… the best we can do may be a broom closet, but we can certainly allow you some privacy.”

“A broom closet is fine,” she says. “I’m not going to be scandalized by brooms.”

“Uh. Okay. That, uh — just here —”

It is exactly and entirely a broom closet, full of cleaning rags and soap and bottles of bleach. There’s a mop, too. Tialma shoves the door shut and leans back against it, sighing. Galo shuffles his feet.

“Okay, Galito,” Tialma says softly. “What really happened?”

“I’m not lying!” Galo protests. “I don’t lie! Especially to you!”

“Oh, honey,” she says, and squeezes his shoulder. “I know, okay. I don’t think you’re lying. But I know you, and either you’ve been crying or somebody maced you. And I remember the time you broke your leg and you were just disappointed you didn’t get to ride in the ambulance.”

“I was _twelve,”_ Galo sulks.

“And you’ve only gotten tougher since,” Tialma says. “You’re not crying over a black eye. I know that. What were you doing in the back wing forgetting to go to class? Why’d Lio come looking for you?”

“I’m not on drugs or anything,” Galo says desperately, “it’s not that.”

“Didn’t even cross my mind,” she says gently. “It’s okay, Galito. Take your time. Whatever it is — look, I won’t lie, there’s a chance I’ll be mad as all hell, but I’ll still be on your side and I’ll still be here to help. That’s all I’m ever going to want to do. No matter what. Moms get their kids out of messes, they don’t push them deeper in them.”

Galo’s chest is going kind of tight again. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I, um… so, uh, it startled when Vulcan ruined Thyma’s essay?”

“Okay,” she says. “Do I know Thyma?”

“Probably not? She’s one of Lio’s ducklings. His freshmen, he kind of looks out for them,” he clarifies quickly.

“Was _she_ in the men’s back bathroom?”

“Oh, no, that was a while before. I, um…” He scuffs his shoe along the floor again. “So it was for Coach — uh, for… Coach… Foresight’s class, because he does freshman civics too? And junior history?”

Tialma’s eyes go wide for a second, and then go very very narrow. “With you so far,” she says. “And then?”

“I went to ask him if he could give her an extension, and he said no, and then I went to the back bathroom, and then the fight started,” Galo says. And, because he knows she’s going to say something about the fight just starting all on its own, he clarifies, “Lio was looking for me, and then Vulcan and the other guys came in and started bothering Lio — they do that _all the fucking time,_ Tialma, seriously!”

“Yeah, I’m not thinking I like them much,” she says. “Did you hit first?”

“No, that was — I didn’t see it but it was Lio,” Galo says. “It wasn’t his fault, though! He has to put up with their stupid crap seriously actually all of the time, every single day, and I hate it so much. They deserved it!”

“Sadly, we can’t punch everyone who deserves it. It only makes the world a better place for about a minute, then it all gets worse again.”

“But —”

“I know, I know,” she says, sighing. “I hear you. And then you waded in to back him up, right?”

“Well, yeah! What else was I going to do?”

She laughs a little, grim and weary, rubbing at her eyes. Galo winces.

“There were _three_ of them, Tialma!” he begs. “They were all getting into it. And Lio’s — he’s fast and he’s really tough but he’s _little._ It wasn’t fair.”

“And the day you don’t try and even an unfair fight is the day we put you in the ground,” she says, sighing. “I know.”

“Well, yeah?! And he’s my friend!”

“Yeah,” she says. “No, I wish we weren’t doing this, but I know why you did it.” She massages her forehead. “Please, next time, _try_ and get a teacher or something. Some happy medium between ignoring it and brawling in the bathroom.”

“Sorry, Tialma,” Galo says, very quietly.

“Hey.” She reaches out to squeeze his arm. “Like I said, I get it. It’s not the solution I wish you’d found, but I’d rather have you than a kid who doesn’t try anything at all. Any day of the week.”

“Thanks,” he says, sniffling a little. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, which goes really badly because he forgot one of them was still swollen up. “Fuck fuck fuck _ow._ ”

“Careful there,” she says. “My purse is in the car or I’d give you a tissue, I’m sorry.”

“’S okay.” He sniffs hard. “Okay, I’m good.”

“Okay,” she says. “So. What’s the part you aren’t telling me?”

He kind of goes still. “Uh?”

“C’mon, Galito,” she says, still gentle. “They said you didn’t show up for fifth or sixth periods, and you said Lio came looking for you. How come you were in the back bathroom that whole time? What upset you so bad?”

“Oh. Uh.” He tugs at the bracelet around his wrist, and then snatches his hand back before he breaks it again. He’s amazed it got through the fight okay, honestly. “Uh. Coach — Mr. Foresight said some stuff when I talked to him.”

“Uh-huh,” she says. “Some stuff.” The look she gives him makes it very clear: she’s waiting, and she’ll wait all night. He knows.

“He said I was a stupid little faggot who only followed him around because no one else wanted me,” Galo admits. His voice sounds horribly, horribly tiny in the shadows of the broom closet.

Tialma’s nostrils flare.

“Galo,” she says, very very evenly. “Did you just say what I think you just said?”

“Yeah,” he says, and tries to laugh. “Pretty stupid of me, huh?”

“This crap you said Vulcan and his friends give Lio,” Tialma says. “Is it bigoted?”

“Oh yeah,” Galo says. “All the time _._ ”

“All right,” she says, and sets her teeth. “All right. Then let’s go.” She slams the door open, revealing the vice-principal fidgeting in the middle of the hallway.

“Let’s go,” she says, setting off for the office at a pace just under running. “I want the principal in on this conversation.”


	9. just don't lie to me

One of the office ladies — Galo hasn’t learned their names yet — is on the phone at the front desk when Tialma storms in, still trailing Galo and the vice-principal. (Well, Galo is doing his best to storm in general support, but he doesn’t really know what they’re fighting. Kray Foresight seems likeliest, and that still feels like a whole complicated mess buried somewhere in his stomach. So: not as much backup-storming as he’d like.)

“Uh,” the office lady, looking harried. There’s a flicker of movement behind the desk that resolves into Lio, half-hidden by a giant potted plant.

“ _Lio!”_ Lio’s slouched low in a plastic chair, left wrist propped on a bright blue ice pack; the bruise on his cheekbone is a furious purplish-red. He’s finger-combed his hair at least kind of into place, though. Galo tries to go to him — doesn’t even think about it, just moves — and is pulled up sharp by the vice-principal’s hand on his elbow.

“I don’t _think_ so,” he says.

“Why not?” Galo demands, trying to tug away. Lio blinks at him, wide-eyed in the fluorescent light.

“I want to see the principal _right now,_ ” Tialma snaps next to him.

“Uh,” the office lady says, “she’s actually with another parent…”

“Is it Dian Fotia?”

“I don’t think I can answer —”

“Yes,” Lio says, leaning around the immense plant. “She’s been in there for a couple minutes.”

“Good,” Tialma says, making for the door. Her mouth is a grim line. “She should be a part of this conversation too.”

“ _Ma’am!”_ the vice-principal wails, loosening his grip on Galo’s arm, at the same time as the office lady says, “I’m sorry, you can’t —”

“Fine,” Tialma snorts, and pulls her phone out of the pocket of her scrubs. “Kiddo, can you lean over and tap on the glass?”

The principal’s office is divided from the main office by a glass wall covered in deep-green blinds; the trouble chairs are a loose L, half back against the glass, half against the outside wall. Galo goes to obey Tialma, but Lio beats him to it, twisting in his seat to hammer on the glass with the heel of his unstrained hand. There’s a flicker of movement behind the blinds, and then Dian shoves a few green slats aside in order to stare out between them. Galo, halfway to the glass by then, kind of jumps.

“Yeah, hi, Dian,” Tialma says into the phone, waving. “Trust me, you want me in on this conversation. Galo told me some things that you need to know as much as I do — yeah, no, of course, of course. Trust me, I’m going to bat for both our kids here. They got put in one hell of a position.”

Dian vanishes from the window, letting the blinds sway back into place, and a moment later the principal’s door opens.

“Thanks,” Tialma says, and strides in, nearly leaving a heat-shimmer in her wake.

The vice-principal and the office lady look at each other. Lio looks at Galo. Galo looks at Lio. There’s tinny music blaring from Lio’s earbuds — he’s got one in, the other hanging loose — and it kind of fills up the office.

“Are you okay?” Galo asks, dropping into the chair next to Lio. “How bad is your wrist? It looked pretty nasty.”

“It’s just sore, nothing worse,” Lio says, rotating it a bit on the ice pack. “How’s your eye? It looks pretty badly off.”

“Yeah, I had to answer a bunch of stupid concussion questions,” Galo says, rolling his eyes and immediately regretting it. “It was really annoying.”

“Better than actually having a concussion,” Lio says, and reaches up to push Galo’s hair out of his face, enough to get a better look. “Ouch, did you even try to dodge?”

“Uh,” the vice-principal says, from where there’s apparently been a whispered conversation over by the desk. The office lady is still holding the phone.

“What?” Galo says, as he and Lio both blink at the grown-ups. The grown-ups blink right back.

“So,” the office lady says, her voice very high and strangled for some reason. “Lio, uh, will you… feel threatened if you and Galo are waiting in the office together?”

“What?!” Galo squawks. “Hey!”

“Mr. Thymos, she didn’t ask you,” the vice-principal says.

Lio regards them both through half-lidded eyes. His fingers are still on Galo’s cheek, soothing and cool. “…No,” he says. “This is when you decide I might feel threatened?”

“I was on his side!” Galo protests. “I was backing him up!”

Lio sighs, sitting back in his chair. “I was going to try and get you out of it,” he mutters to Galo out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why? I was in it,” Galo says.

“Well, it looks like that problem is… handled,” the office lady says behind them, and falls back into quiet conversation with the vice-principal.

“Do you want my ice pack?” Lio asks Galo.

“No, you need that! Anyway, I already had one, I just poked myself in the face with it.” Too late, it occurs to Galo that if he’d said yes, Lio might’ve touched his face some more. That was nice, soothing.

Lio does need the ice pack though.

“Seriously,” he says, and reaches over to tug it a little more firmly against Lio’s wrist for him. That gives him a look at Lio’s other hand, where his knuckles are a split and scabbing ruin. “Oh wow, badass.”

Lio’s grin is tiny and ferocious. “I tried not to aim for bones,” he says, “but I hit a few.”

“You kicked ass,” Galo says.

Lio shrugs one shoulder. “I tried.” He fiddles with the ice pack, with his bracelet, staring down at his split knuckles. “You didn’t have to step in. I would’ve…”

“Of course I did!” Galo says. “What was I going to do, just sit there and listen to you fight three guys at once?”

Lio makes a complicated face, shaking his head, “Okay, yeah,” he says. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Yeah, because I _help people._ ”

“You do.” Lio closes his eyes, biting his lip. “Galo, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Galo says blankly, and then, “Oh. Oh, I — wow. Long day.”

“Yeah,” Lio says grimly.

“You were, uh.” Galo tries to laugh; it doesn’t really work. “You were right, it turns out, and I called you a jerk about it. So I’m sorry, not you.”

“No, I’m very fucking sorry,” Lio says. “Whatever he said, I let you walk right into it. And I —” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t think you’re naive, Galo. Not really. I think you think the best of people, and sometimes it’s better than they deserve, but I think… I think the world would be better off if more people thought like you do.”

“Oh.” It’s been a really long day, and a really rough one, and Lio’s words hit him like too-hot water on hard-used muscles. It’s a relief, but it _hurts._ “Thanks.” His face is warm; he ducks his head, curling in a little closer to Lio.

He was going to ask to kiss him earlier. Jesus, it’s been a long day.

He could ask now, maybe, but he just… right now he just wants to be near him. To know he’s okay. If Lio says no it’ll be fine eventually, Galo’s pretty sure of that, but he super doesn’t want to deal with that this afternoon.

“You were right, though,” Galo admits. “This time, at least.”

“I know.” Lio grimaces. “I’m sorry. You look like it was bad.”

“It wasn’t great.” He hunches over a bit more. “How come you never told me what your problem with him was? Or what his problem with you was, I guess.”

“I thought you knew, at first,” Lio says, and the words hit Galo in the chest, one more blow added to the day. “By the time I realized you didn’t…” Lio trails off, but it’s enough to let Galo take another breath in. Lio shrugs. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. If I’d told you at the beginning, and you didn’t listen, that would be one thing, but by then…”

“Oh.” Galo winces. “And then I really didn’t believe you. Fuck, Lio, I’m so _sorry._ ”

“I didn’t exactly give you the whole story.” Hesitantly, Lio sets his hand over Galo’s arm, the bloody knuckles catching the light. “Galo, seriously.” He worries at his lip, a tiny fretful gesture. “I didn’t see you anywhere at lunch after that, and then Aina said you didn’t show up to fifth period. I was… I was worried.”

“I’ll be okay.” Galo does his best to grin. “I’m pretty tough.”

“Okay.” Lio squeezes his arm, gentle and reassuring. He doesn’t pull away. “Do you want to tell me what he said?”

Galo kind of doesn’t want to ever think about it again, but that’s obviously not an option, so: “A bunch of nasty stuff.” And then, his mouth not consulting his brain (admittedly: pretty normal), “He called me a faggot and told me nobody wanted me around, mostly.”

Lio’s fingers tighten on his arm.

“I should’ve warned you.”

“You tried!” Galo says. “You tried. It’s not your fault, Lio, for real.” He sighs. “Can we just… blame him? He said it.”

“All right,” Lio says. “But don’t forget Vulcan.”

Galo snorts. “Yeah, can’t leave him out.” He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Did Coach — uh. Coach Foresight, did he say anything like that to you?”

Lio grimaces. “Sort of,” he says. “You know how I failed freshman civics?”

“You said something about it, yeah,” Galo says. He already doesn’t like how this is going.

“I was in his class,” Lio says. “He liked doing a lot of in-class debates on — whatever. Current events.” His mouth twists. “I wasn’t _out_ out, but I was pretty sure I was gay, and I wasn’t trying to pretend I wasn’t. And gay rights were a debate topic a lot, and that made it pretty easy to figure out.” Galo can imagine. Lio doesn’t back down from a fight any more than he does.

“And he said something?” Galo asks.

“Not exactly.” Lio rolls his eyes. “Somehow I was the only one who got told not to interrupt people during a debate, though. And my class participation grade was pretty low for how much I was talking. Anyway, he had this final paper that was a huge chunk of our grade, supposed to prepare us for college or something, and it was a persuasive essay. He gave everyone a topic, but he also gave us a position we had to take. So we’d learn how to see other people’s points of view.” Disgust drips off his voice.

“And he gave you… what, like, why gay people shouldn’t get married?” Galo asks.

Lio tilts his head. “Got it in one.”

“ _Ugh._ Wow.”

“He kept saying the topics were assigned randomly,” Lio says. “As if I’m going to believe that. And I refused to do it, but he wouldn’t change it, so I just turned in an essay in favor, and he gave me a zero for not doing the assignment. And then I failed civics.”

“ _Yikes,_ ” Galo says. “Wow! Yikes. That sucks. Didn’t — why didn’t your mom do anything?”

“I didn’t tell her until she got my grades,” Lio says. “I mean, I didn’t know he was going to fail me until I got the grades either.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Galo asks, actually concerned now. “I thought — but she seemed really cool —”

“She tried when she found out,” Lio says quickly. “They just said it was too late by then.” He glares towards the front desk, although Galo’s pretty sure the office lady doesn’t have anything to do with that. The vice-principal has left at some point. “I wanted to handle it myself, that’s all. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, okay,” Galo admits. “If a teacher was annoying me all year I’d probably complain about it to Tialma, though, so she’d know some of it.”

“I just didn’t want to talk about it.” Lio scuffs his boots against the floor. “Anyway, she did make sure I got put in the other half of Civics the next year, and he hasn’t been doing debates in history. So.”

“That really sucks,” Galo says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Lio bumps Galo’s shoulder with his own. They fall quiet for a second; then there’s a muffled shout from the other side of the glass behind them. They both look at each other.

Lio glances around the office; the office lady is still on the phone, looking exasperated, and there’s nobody else in here. “Come on,” he says, tugging at Galo’s arm, and twists around to press his face to the glass. Galo follows suit, careful of his swollen eye.

This close, they can just peek through the blinds. Tialma is flushed ruddy-brown, her hair a wild cloud around her head; even as they watch she drags her hand through it, glaring at the principal. Dian has her hands planted on the desk, finger stabbing down onto the surface; she’s gone very, very pale, her lips a thin and vicious line. By the movement of heads and the ebbing voices, she and Tialma are tossing the conversation back and forth between them. Galo finds himself reminded of last year’s history class, a million miles away, and the day the teacher got distracted and spent a whole class explaining firing lines. Shoot, fall back, reload, while the line behind you steps up to fire.

The principal is flinching behind his desk, looking kind of like sweating cheese.

“Boys,” the office lady says, clicking the phone down back into place. “Don’t… I can’t let you do what you’re doing.”

“Sorry, Miz…. Miss,” Galo says, slumping back into the seat properly. Lio eels around next to him, resettling his ice pack on his arm. The office lady gives the blinds a longing look, though, as the voices spike again.

“Hey,” Galo says, realizing, “you got into a fight before, right? How long are we gonna wait?”

“What?” Lio asks, blinking.

“Did you not?” Galo asks. “Someone told me you got into a fight behind the dumpsters. Was that not true?”

“What? Oh, that.” Lio shakes his head, one sharp jerk. “That wasn’t a _fight._ That was… some guys were talking to me. I tried to leave. One of them got in my way. I shoved past him, he fell. They talked to us for twenty minutes and sent us all back to class, and that was the end of it.”

“Wow.” Galo glances back over his shoulder at the office. “Didn’t your mom do anything?”

Lio sighs. “’All involved students received counseling about the incident,’” he says, deadpan. “Eventually someone told her to drop it or they’d point out that I officially started it.”

“ _Wow,_ ” Galo repeats, scowling. “I hope you broke his nose.”

“What, Vulcan’s?” Lio asks, glancing over at him. “He wasn’t even part of that.”

“I don’t care, he still deserved it,” Galo says. “I wish _I’d_ broken somebody’s nose.” He sighs. “I mean, only if it would actually make him stop, I guess. But I’m still glad you hit him that hard.” Lio is looking at him funny. “What?”

“You’re a good person, Galo,” is all Lio says, voice going a little strange. He shifts in the chair, his shoulder brushing against Galo’s. Galo kind of leans into it, settling against each other. Slowly, Lio’s head tilts to lean on his shoulder. Galo can see his eyes moving under his hair, glancing around the office like he’s checking to see if there’s anyone watching. No one is, though.

Carefully, Galo settles his arm over Lio’s shoulders. It’s nice — this is something Galo would do for anyone who wanted it, after a day like this, but it’s also something he’d like to do a lot more. Just to hold Lio close like this, even on uncomfortable plastic chairs with an argument going thermonuclear behind them. Maybe especially then — well, no, he’d rather do this in a billion cooler places, but it feels important to do it now.

He _really wants_ to kiss Lio. Right now. But this is a shitty, shitty day they’re all having, and if Lio does like him back, does want him, then neither of them should have to remember all this when they think “oh yeah, that was when we started dating.” Enough things in Lio’s life have been ugly and harsh.

(Maybe a few too many things in Galo’s life have, too.)

“Hey,” Lio says, shifting a little, and holds up an earbud in offer. “Before you get bored and vibrate the building apart.”

“Huh?”

“You bounce your leg when you’re bored.”

“Who doesn’t?” Galo says, but he takes the earbud, settling it into his ear. _But we are what we are ‘till the day we die, or till we don’t have the strength to go on-on-on._ “Do you have any cheerful music?” Galo asks, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I like your stuff, just. A lot of it is kind of a bummer.” Lio snorts against his shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lio says, shaking his head. His hair brushes soft against Galo’s arm. “Give me a second. That’s kind of… no it isn’t, not really. Oh, here we go.” There’s building guitar, and then: _Calm your nerves now, don’t worry, just breathe…_

“Oh, this is cool,” Galo says. “We can use my iPod too if you run out of happy stuff.” For some reason that makes Lio laugh again.

“You’re right,” he says. “We’ll manage.”

Galo could also pull out his own headphones, honestly, but he’d rather share with Lio, and he’s starting to like this song. _All of them said they wanted change, I hope that you remain the same…_ He taps his fingers to the beat on Lio’s shoulder, and for a moment, even with the colossal shittiness everything about today, things are pretty all right.

* * *

They’re digging deep into Lio’s reserves of happy music, and the final bell has long since rung, by the time the principal’s door opens again. Tialma, Dian, and the principal file out, all three looking grim.

“Everyone involved is going to be suspended for the next two days,” the principal says wearily, beckoning all of them out of the office, “which means those of you involved with extracurriculars will also miss the next event. I believe that’s going to be this Friday’s football game for everyone. Mrs. Fotia, Ms. Pérez, I’ll keep both of you updated on the process with Mr. Foresight. Good afternoon, everybody.”

“What happened?” Galo asks Tialma, once they’ve all been deposited in the hallway. It’s Dian who answers, though:

“Well, we got them to hit all of you equally, at least,” she says, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “It was about the most we could manage, since ‘he deserved it’ isn’t an official exception to the rules.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lio says softly. “Sorry, Mom.” His eyes widen. “Oh! Galo — I’m sorry about your football game, too.”

“What? Oh.” Galo shrugs. “Not a big deal. Besides, weren’t we just going to be mad at Vulcan?” Something slots into place. “Oh, man, he’s going to be _so pissed_ about missing the game actually, that’s definitely worth it.”

“I think there’s some personal responsibility here,” Dian says, rubbing at her forehead.

“Mom, I know, I’m sorry!” Lio says, cracked and raw, at the same time as Galo says, “I mean, mad at Vulcan instead of each other!” Tialma sets her hand on Galo’s arm.

“I know,” Dian promises, to all of them but mostly to Lio. “I know. You never should have been in this situation in the first place. Never, ever think I think otherwise.” Tialma’s grip on Galo goes a little gentler. Lio kind of twitches for a moment, wincing, before he gets his face under control.

“Did you figure out anything about Thyma’s essay?” Lio asks, and Galo’s eyes go wide.

“Shit, I barely even told you about that. She didn’t do anything wrong at all, she needs an extension!”

“He can’t tell us anything about a kid who isn’t ours,” Tialma says, sighing, “which, fair enough, but he said — oh, what did he even say?” She scrubs her hand over her face, moves her arm to hug Galo around the waist. He leans into her side a little.

“’The circumstances you describe would certainly merit an extension, and I’ll look into the matter,’” Dian quotes, with a slight twist to her mouth. “You should text her, Lio, see if she’s heard anything. Tell her to have her parents call the school, if they haven’t.”

“Okay,” Lio says, digging his phone out of his pocket. His fingers fly, as quick and clever as on the guitar. Galo maybe has a thing about specifically his hands, in addition to the general thing.

There’s other stuff to think about, though. “What’s going to happen with Coach Foresight?” he asks, and is pretty proud actually of how his voice doesn’t shake. He’s gonna be fine about this, even if it takes a little bit.

“They’re working on it,” Tialma says, giving him a tight squeeze. “Probably something, though. And let me tell you, I’m going to be giving the PYC a call about this. We’ll see if they want him volunteering if _this_ is the kind of poison he’s spewing.”

“So people are gonna know about this,” Galo says. Tialma flinches.

“I’ll keep your name out of it as much as I can, kiddo,” she says. “I won’t call the PYC if you don’t want me to, I just —”

“No, no, call, totally call,” Galo says, “I don’t care about that. I just — people should know what he’s really like.” He remembers Coach Foresight’s thing about reputation. “ _Everybody_ should know.”

“I can help with that, if that’s what you want,” Dian says. “I’ll start with the PTA and work out.”

“Call every gossip on the list?” Tialma says, with a wry twist to her mouth.

“I might do just that,” Dian says. “Lio, how much a part of this do you want to be? I can bring up the incident from freshman year, if we want to establish a pattern, but I won’t do that without your permission.” She glares at the office door; a strand of green hair falls into her face, and for a second she looks exactly like her son. “He’s certainly not making the student body any kinder. I don’t know how much it can _help_ to complicate his life, but it has to be a start.”

“Do it,” Lio says. “Mention anything that matters.” His mouth is a razor line.

“Then I will,” she says, and sighs. “I know it’s not enough. I’m sorry.”

“Mom,” he says. “It’s a lot.” He hesitates, rising onto the balls of his feet for a second; then he glances around the hallway, looks at Galo still tucked into the curve of Tialma’s arm, and his expression goes decided and a little defiant. “Mom.” He flings his arms around her shoulders, hugging her tight. They’re almost exactly the same height, his hair falling across hers, the green all mingled. Galo nestles a little more against Tialma, which isn’t easy to do at his height but he manages.

“Oh, baby,” Dian whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Galo can just hear Lio whisper back, “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too,” she says, and kisses his hair before she lets go. She swipes at her eyes, lightning-quick, and then shakes herself out. “Alma, we should talk again soon. Drinks on Friday?”

“Make it Thursday, I have a six o’clock shift on Saturday this week,” Tialma says.

“Done. I’ll call you, we’ll work out where.” She nods. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Thank you for letting me in.” Tialma gives her a grim nod, one that makes Galo think of soldiers again. “C’mon, kiddos. Let’s get you both home.”

It’s still full afternoon sunlight outside, which just seems weird. It seems like it should be ten o’clock at night. They don’t say anything else as they cross the parking lot, don’t say anything else until they’re in the car. Then what pops out of Galo’s mouth, without going anywhere near his brain on the way, is “Are you mad?”

Tialma freezes in the middle of putting on her seatbelt. “Mad?” she says, and then she’s half-climbing over the gearshift to pull Galo against her shoulder. “ _Mad?”_ she says. “Galito, I’m fucking furious. I could kill Foresight with my bare hands, I’ll start with his balls and work outward. I’m a nurse, I know how to make it hurt. Yes, I’m damn well mad. But not with you, _never_ with you. Never, ever, ever over something like this, _never.”_

“Okay,” he says, and lets out a breath that seems to have been trapped in bigger lungs than he usually has. “Okay.”

“I love you, kiddo,” she says, giving him a squeeze. “So, so much. You deserve so much better than that.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, kind of muffled by her hair. “I did punch some people.”

“I’m giving you a pass this once.” She lets go and taps his nose. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“Promise,” he says, crossing his heart.

“I think tonight is a good night to eat pizza and not cook,” she says. “Get your phone out, we’ll pick it up on the way.” Tialma always knows how to make him feel better.


	10. gonna rattle this ghost town

“What are you doing up?”

Galo blinks at Tialma from the kitchen door. He’s still sleep-fogged and muzzy, tripping on the heels of his pajama pants and following his nose to the coffee. “It’s Tuesday?” he says, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, and the bracelet bumps against his eyebrow and scrapes half-unknotted. “Oh, crap!” He grabs for the strands, pulling them tight, and then actually remembers yesterday. “Oh. Crap. Why _am_ I up?”

Tialma laughs, pulling her bagel out of the toaster. “You want to go back to bed?”

“Nah,” he says, collapsing half into a chair and half onto the kitchen table. “Didja make enough coffee for me?”

“I can spare some,” she says, and grabs him a mug. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, so you’re on your own for breakfast, I gotta head out pretty soon.”

“I’ll make eggs,” Galo says. “Hey, is it okay if Lio comes over for a while?”

She hesitates for a second. “Sure, I guess, if his mom’s cool with it. As long as she knows I’m not here.”

“Okay, I’ll let her know,” Galo says, shrugging. Tialma takes a contemplative bite of her bagel and swallows.

“Just… make good choices,” she says. “Condoms are for preventing for STDs as much as pregnancy.”

Galo sprays coffee across the kitchen.

“Tialma!” he wails, doubling over. The coffee geyser only barely missed her. “Come on!”

“You know how many STDs I’ve seen in my career?” she says. “I gotta say it. They’re in the bathroom, we live right by a Walgreens, take care of both of you.”

“Okay!” he says desperately. “Okay! I get it! Safety! Important! _We had this conversation last year why do we have to have it twice please stop!”_

“Okay, okay,” she says. “Conversation over, refresher handled, we’re done. Grab the paper towels, will you?”

“I haven’t even gotten to _kiss_ him yet,” Galo mumbles desolately, sinking to the tabletop. Tialma blinks at him.

“Huh, really?”

“ _Yes,_ ” he says, trying to cram his full opinion of that into the word. He is possibly going to die of not kissing Lio. Fires will go unfought. Bullies will be allowed to run wild. It will be a terrible thing for the world.

(Lio thinks he makes the world better.)

“I thought you were going to say something yesterday,” Tialma says.

“I _was!_ ” Galo protests. “Some _shit happened._ ”

“Yeah, fair enough, I can’t fault you for that. I guess I thought… eh.” She takes a much more decisive bite of her bagel. “Seriously, though, don’t leave the coffee all over the floor.”

“It was your fault,” Galo mutters, retrieving the roll of paper towels obediently.

“Tough, I need to eat this bagel and be out the door in nine minutes.”

“Okay, okay,” Galo says. Mid-wiping up the drops, he adds, “I didn’t sleep with Niva either, by the way.”

“Oh.” Tialma chews. “Okay.”

She didn’t ask, but he shrugs, not looking up from the mess. “I did — I did like her. I just didn’t want to go too fast, y’know?”

“Galito, hey,” she says. “Let me tell you a secret. There’s things I worry about, with you, cause I’m your mom and I can’t help it. And yeah, a lot of them are about you being reckless. But that you won’t take good care of the people who matter to you? That’s never been a worry.”

“Thanks, Tialma,” he says, smiling down at his hands.

“Course, kiddo.” She sneak-ruffles his hair, _again,_ although it’s not like it’s gelled yet so it’s fine. “I gotta run, but if you’re planning to talk to him today, good luck. If he says yes, invite him to stay for dinner. If he says no, text me and I’ll pick up ice cream.”

“We’ll still be _friends,_ ” he says. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Maybe I just want ice cream, huh?” she says, but she squeezes his shoulder. “You still get to be a little bummed if he doesn’t like you back. I’m not worried, though, he seems like a sensible kid. Well. In some ways.” She stuffs the last of her bagel into her mouth and shoves herself to her feet. “Ah, crap, time to bolt,” she mumbles — _with her mouth full,_ which would _definitely_ get Galo called a wild animal.

(He doesn’t call her on it, though.)

* * *

So Galo is totally waiting at the front window when Lio shows up.

He’s not _just_ waiting. He’s listening to his English homework and going through the stray sock basket, which he’s been promising Tialma he’ll do for like a week and a half. (Neither of them can figure out how they end up with so many unidentified single socks. There are only two of them and his feet are twice as big as hers.)

But still, he’s definitely at the front window waiting, and he definitely bounces out of his chair and to the door the second Lio comes walking down the drive.

“Hi!” he says, swinging the door open. “Did you walk the whole way here?” That’s _really_ far.

“No, my mom dropped me off at the end of the block so she didn’t have to deal with the dead end,” he says, bracing his foot on the shoe rack to wrestle with his boots. In the dimness of the entryway his hair is almost ghostly. “She was running errands on her lunch, so.” He shrugs off his jacket, which he tosses on top of Galo’s backpack, and then frowns over at Galo. “What are you grinning at?”

“You,” Galo says, because there’s no point pretending otherwise. He likes looking at Lio without his jacket, okay, likes getting a better look at his arms and his throat and the movement of muscles under his shirt, and more than that, he likes getting to see Lio when he’s _comfortable,_ when he’s at ease for once. And he likes that Lio’s comfortable around him.

“You’re very weird,” Lio says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling. “I can’t believe I thought you were a normal football player. You’re _very_ weird.”

“I’m not weird!” Galo says. “You’re just cool.”

“Weird,” Lio repeats, and flicks his nose.

“ _Hey,_ ” Galo complains, wrinkling it.

“Don’t even, you did that to me first,” Lio says, shrugging past Galo into the kitchen. Galo turns to complain anyway and kind of yelps instead. Lio’s T-shirt is white for once, and thin enough to be near-translucent, and Galo might be kind of interested in that actually except mostly what it’s showing off is the stretch of bruising down his back.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, brushing Lio’s hair out of the way to get a better look. It’s mostly on the blade of his right shoulder, stretching down towards his ribs like a blotchy purple-red wing. He must have hit the wall at an angle. Galo realizes his thumb is hovering over the mark like he’s going to trace the outline, or something.

“Did it bruise?” Lio asks.

“I can see it through your _shirt,_ ” Galo says. “Yeah, it bruised!”

“That’s not saying a lot,” Lio says, “I bruise easily. Including from a lot of things that don’t hurt. Ordinary things,” he adds. “If it looks bad enough to surprise you, it looks worse than it is, because I don’t notice it unless I touch it. Even then, it’s not bad.”

“Okay.” The pad of his thumb ghosts just a little along the edge of the bruise before he pulls himself back. “Is your wrist okay?”

“That one does hurt,” Lio says, holding his arm out indulgently for inspection. There’s a loose ring of bruising gone purple-blue, with a few splotches that might be individual fingers. Galo scowls, running his finger as lightly as he can over the skin.

“What’d you do to his hand?” Galo asks.

“Twisted his fingers back. Well, his index finger. He let go, but I don’t think his hand feels any better than mine does today.” The edge of his smile is proud.

“ _Good,_ ” Galo says. “And I’m glad I hit the other guy.”

“I did start it,” Lio says. He twists his hand back and forth a little, letting the bruise catch the light. “There’s something satisfying about it, in a way. This is something anyone can see, and we paid them back for it.” He sighs. “Not that I’m planning to do it again.”

“Yeah, let’s not,” Galo says. “Tialma was really worried, I think. Do you want an ice pack for that?”

“Maybe later. I’ve been icing it so much I’m forgetting what it’s like to have my wrist be dry.”

“That’s fair!” Galo says. “I had frozen peas on my eye all last night and I never want to eat them again.”

“It does look better than I thought it would,” Lio says. “I was expecting swelling.”

“How pissed off am I gonna be if I ask how you know so much about black eyes?”

“You won’t, it wasn’t my eye.” Lio laughs. “My mother got elbowed a few times when she was skating.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” They’re still just kind of standing around the kitchen, which is stupid, so Galo herds Lio towards the living room a little. “You want anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Lio glances around curiously, which makes Galo glance around too, wondering what it looks like to Lio. Tialma likes the house bright and crowded in a way that Lio’s wasn’t; they’ve got bright wild paintings, a few different funny clocks, flowers on the side table, candles and knickknacks on the windowsills. Lio’s lips twitch up, and he pokes at a little cast-iron fire engine by the window, warm from the late-fall sunlight. “I was wondering how long it would take to find something like this.”

“The ladder on that works, it’s good to fiddle with if you’re doing something,” Galo says, and reaches past him to demonstrate. The freaking bracelet slides loose on his wrist and starts to slip off just like it’s been doing every five minutes — it’s been getting worse and worse since yesterday. He makes an exasperated grab for it. “Hey, do you have any extras of these? This one broke.”

“I — what?” Lio blinks. “I don’t remember giving you that.”

“It fell in my bag, I think,” Galo says. “Sorry, was that not okay? You said you had a bunch of them.”

“No, it’s fine,” Lio says, frowning down at Galo’s wrist. His eyebrow ring glints through the long fall of his hair, bright as chrome. “You don’t have to do that.”

“What?” Galo asks.

“You don’t need to wear that. It’s not something I… I don’t expect it. This isn’t your fight.”

“Uh,” Galo says. Okay, moment of truth, or at least, the start of it. He can totally do this! “It is, though.”

“No, it’s not,” Lio says. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be. I appreciate it, but —”

“No, _Lio,_ ” Galo says, maybe kind of louder than he meant. “Listen to me! It’s _my fight._ Like. My fight.”

Lio stops, his mouth still half-open. It moves for a second, wordless, and Galo’s heart is pounding in his ears but it’s still _really cute._

“Oh,” Lio finally says. Galo licks his lips.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s — yeah. It’s my fight.”

“I didn’t know,” Lio says.

“Yeah, I didn’t either!” Galo says. “It’s weird, right? You’d think you’d notice.”

“It was gradual for me,” Lio says, like he’s admitting something. “I spent most of eighth grade thinking: _maybe, maybe, probably, yes._ Looking at all the girls I couldn’t want, and all the guys I did.” Galo squishes a vague sense of jealousy as very stupid.

“I think I like everyone?” Galo says. Lio’s lips twitch up. “Hey, why is that funny?”

“It’s very you,” Lio says. “To describe it that way.”

“Yeah, well. Bisexual or whatever? It’s a weird word.” He makes a face. “It sounds like a science thing.”

“People shorten it to just bi,” Lio says. “Gueira does. And there’s always queer, if you don’t want to be specific. I use it too.”

“Oh, that is better,” Galo says, nodding. “Yeah, those both sound much better. Bi or queer.” He shapes them in his mouth experimentally; they sit easier on his tongue, more comfortable, like they make this easier to talk about instead of harder. Sometimes there’s a use for giving names to things.

Lio runs his fingers through his hair, shoving it behind his ears. “You wanted a bracelet,” he says, digging his hands into his pockets. “If I don’t have one here I’ll have one in my jacket — no, here we are.” He pulls out another length of cord. “Here, give me your wrist.”

Galo does, tugging the broken bracelet off first, and Lio takes Galo’s arm in both his hands. His fingers are cool and careful and sure over the thin skin where Galo’s pulse is hammering. He’s biting his lip, his forehead all furrowed up in focus as he ties off the knot, and suddenly Galo can’t _stand it_ anymore.

“Lio,” he says, and Lio looks up. His eyes gleam that impossible pink in this light, and his mouth is half-open, and it feels somehow terrifying and inevitable both at once. Like this has to happen like this, was always going to happen like this, and now it’s just up to Galo to gather up his courage and _make_ it happen like it should.

Luckily, Galo’s always been good at courage, and he’s always been good at love.

He kisses Lio.

It’s perfect. Lio’s mouth is soft and warm and faintly waxy with chapstick, and it falls slightly open under Galo’s, just enough for Galo to catch Lio’s lower lip between his own. Lio’s hand is still holding Galo’s wrist, fingers tightening just a little, and Galo feels like he’s overflowing, the sense of _rightness_ too big for his body to hold.

He doesn’t try to deepen the kiss or anything, just keeps it like this, his mouth gentle and slow. He spends so much of his life at high speed, bright and busy and cranked to the max, and he likes that, but this — this is something worth slowing down for. This is something he wants to remember for maybe the rest of his life.

At last he pulls back, still gentle, and Lio grabs hold of Galo’s shirtfront and drags him back down.

Lio kisses him faster, sharper, like Galo will pull away after all if Lio doesn’t kiss him in time. Galo tries to kiss him back, but a smile keeps escaping, his mouth slipping out of his control. Lio, undeterred, presses quick little kisses to Galo’s grin, to the corner of his mouth, pulling away and back like he can’t bear to stop. Galo shifts their hands — Lio’s left hand is still holding his wrist — until he can wind his fingers through Lio’s, and Lio’s breath catches, a soft little “Oh,” that’s more a feeling against Galo’s mouth than a sound.

Even more than Lio kissing him back, that tells Galo everything he needs to know, and it feels like the good version of heartbreak, a joy so deep and vast it almost hurts.

He curls his free hand into Lio’s beautiful standout green hair and draws him close, draws him into a kiss that’s long and sure and urgent, as urgent as the need to make sure Lio knows how good he is. Galo chases the eager motion of Lio’s mouth like if he kisses him for long enough, Lio will hear what he is thinking, which is _I never want to let you go._

Finally they have to pull back, neither of them able to breathe. Galo leans his forehead against Lio’s, squeezing their intertwined hands. He doesn’t have to bend as far as he should; Lio’s up on the balls of his feet, reaching up to Galo. Both of them are panting a little.

“Hi,” Galo says, smiling so much his face hurts. “I like you so much.”

Lio breathes out a faint laugh. “I’ve been crazy about you for weeks,” he says, fast like it’s a confession escaping, which seems a little silly because Galo just did all the work here.

“Weeks!” he squawks. “Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve done this _so much sooner._ ”

“I thought you were straight!” Lio says, laughing, and shoves him gently with the hand still planted on his chest. “ _You_ thought you were straight. Don’t blame this on me.”

“I would’ve figured it out if you’d kissed me!” Galo says. There’s _no way_ he could kiss Lio and not realize it’s all he wants to do, ever, for the rest of time. Well, kiss Lio and fight fires and save people.

“Kissing your straight friends doesn’t usually go well,” Lio says. “Or end with still having straight friends.”

“I would’ve still been your _friend,_ ” Galo says. “Even if I were straight after all, I’d still be your friend! Come on. Who the hell do you think I am?!”

“All right, yes,” Lio says, smile breaking warm and indulgent and fond. “By the time… by the time I really wanted you, I knew it wouldn’t scare you off. I hope you know you’re not normal.” He looks away; his eyelashes brush against his cheek. “I suppose I just didn’t want to have to hear you say no to me.”

Galo’s heart kind of clenches up. “Babe,” he says, and kisses him again, because it’s faster than figuring out how to say he never, ever could. Lio’s hand tightens in his shirt again, and Galo thinks he gets it.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” Lio asks when they break apart. “You calling me babe?”

“Is it gonna bug you if it is?” Galo asks.

Lio purses his lips; the effect is kind of ruined because he keeps slipping back into a smile. “It could be worse,” he says, and his voice is fond enough to warm Galo all the way down to the bone.

“Be my boyfriend?” Galo asks, bumping his nose against Lio’s, and Lio laughs.

“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t kiss you like that if I didn’t mean to be. What kind of guy do you think I am?” His voice goes low and teasing and a little like a purr, and Galo shivers happily. Oh, man. Lio teasing him on purpose is going to be _dangerous._ He can’t wait.

“The best kind,” he says, and pecks a kiss to his lips. “My favorite kind.” Another kiss. “The kind I’m dating now.”

“You’re _ridiculous,_ ” Lio says.

“Good!” Galo says, tracing the edge of Lio’s smile with the back of his fingers. “Good. You need to laugh more often.”

* * *

They kiss for a long while. The whole condom conversation remains _completely unnecessary thank you very much Tialma;_ the steamiest it gets is Galo’s fingers dipping under Lio’s shirt to stroke the soft skin at the small of his back, Lio’s hand sneaking into Galo’s back pocket for a squeeze that makes Galo squeak and then laugh into Lio’s mouth. But it’s all still dizzying, still leaves Galo with his face flushed and his skin buzzing.

He can’t stop smiling, and what’s even better is that neither can Lio.

Eventually both their mouths are sore and both of them are way past breathless, and Galo’s not sure about Lio but he himself kind of needs a breather before things get a little embarrassing. Lio is _really hot,_ and it turns out that the sounds he makes are quiet but he makes a lot of them: all sighs and cut-off gasps, tiny laughs and little _mms_ against Galo’s lips. And his eyes glint smug and wicked whenever he makes Galo shiver: when he scrapes his fingernails through Galo’s hair, when he strokes his thumb across the inside of Galo’s wrist under the bracelet, when he noses at the underside of Galo’s jaw.

Galo might be in his new absolute favorite kind of trouble, basically. He doesn’t want to rush or anything — it’s the meaning-things again, he’s not patient by nature but he can be for the things he wants to matter — but, well. Lio already matters. It’s super not hard to imagine a future that involves Lio wearing nothing but his jewelery, his hair falling loose over his shoulders, his face all pink and adorable, his forehead pressed against Galo’s as they figure out how to move together.

Galo doesn’t want to _rush_ but he definitely wants to _get there,_ basically, and he’s already pretty hopeful they’re going to have time.

That’s for the future, though. For today, they curl up together on the couch with limbs intertwined and Lio’s head on Galo’s shoulder, and play Mario Kart until the batteries in the Wii remotes give out. (Lio cheats viciously, utterly unashamed to tickle Galo’s ribs or lean up and kiss him to get Galo shooting off the edge of the track.)

Lio does, in fact, stay for dinner. He spends the first half of it visibly terrified of Tialma and the second half of it teaming up with her to make fun of Galo, which, yeah, is about what Galo would have expected if he thought about it. Galo grumbles and pouts at Tialma and kicks Lio gently under the table and basks in it all.

It’s a really good day.

Wednesday they have to stay home and deal with the mountains of classwork that got delivered, although Lio apparently manages to get it done in time for band practice with Gueira and Meis, because in the middle of the afternoon he checks his phone and finds three messages from Lio’s number:

_hi this is gueira treat him rite or ill kill u_

_mrx,ldjff!3_

_sorry ignore gueira hes an asshole_

From an unknown number, there’s _this is meis using my own phone. u make him happy but keep it that way._

Galo texts Lio _lol its fine play something happy_ and texts Meis _im going to!!!!!!!!!!!!_ Evidently he passes muster, because no more threatening messages arrive.

Still, by the end of the day, he’s kind of excited to be back to normal. He’s _bored,_ hanging around in the house all day on his own, and — well, yeah, he’s looking forward to seeing Lio again tomorrow, even if it’s only been a day. So sue him.

* * *

So, of course, Thursday dawns rainy and stupid and gross, and Galo gets stuck behind the world’s slowest tractor on the way to school and he gets there like twenty-three seconds before the bell so he doesn’t see anybody. Great.

He’s saved by the bell’s stupid way too goddamn long buzz, stumbling in the door on the last echoes, and sheepishly books it to his usual seat under the wary eye of Miz Fiametta. “Hi!” he whispers to Aina.

“Holy shit,” she whispers back, which is when Galo remembers that his eye is still fucked. “So it’s true?”

“Is what true?” Galo asks.

“You and Lio Fotia got in a fight?”

“What? No!” Galo says, and then, “Wait, I mean, we fought some other guys, is that what you meant?”

“People are saying a lot of different stuff,” she says. “So you were on the same side?”

“Yeah!” Galo says. “What would we fight about?” Oh, wait, they did… kind of have a fight earlier that Monday actually, a billion years ago. But they made up! And it wasn’t a _fight_ fight, it was barely even an argument.

“What would you get in a fight with _other_ people about?” Aina asks.

“Uhhhh, they were being dicks to him?” Galo says.

“Huh,” Aina says. “I didn’t know you guys were friends. Or were you just playing hero?”

“I don’t _play_ hero! I am a hero,” Galo says. Aina thwaps him with her pencil. And this is great, because he gets to — “And I’m dating him!”

Aina’s mouth drops open.

“Uh… huh,” she says, very slowly. “Oh. Kay. How… long has that been happening?”

“Dating him? Only a couple days,” Galo says. “We’ve been friends for a while though! Did you seriously not know?”

“I didn’t,” she says. “You don’t really talk about yourself.”

“Yes I do,” Galo says immediately, because. Come on. Yes he does.

“Well, yeah, okay,” she says. “But you say the same, like, three things.”

“ _Hey._ ”

“Sorry, you do,” she says. “You have a lot of different ways to say them, but you do. You don’t really tell me anything else.”

“Huh.” Okay, maybe it’s kind of true. He shrugs. “Well, he’s my friend! And my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I know that now,” she says, and bites her lip. Galo braces himself, but what she says is, “So, uh. Is he going to sit with us at lunch?”

Galo lights up. “Oh, that’d be great! Can he bring his ducklings?”

“I… he has ducklings?” Aina says. “How many? In his coat?”

“Three!” Galo says, and then processes the last part. “Not real ducklings, they’re freshmen.”

“Ohhhh,” she says. “Look, I sit with Lucia and Vinny. Yeah, uh, sure, I guess, I mean —”

“Back _table,_ ” Miz Fiametta calls. “I’m sure you’re analyzing the themes of _The Crucible_ back there.”

“Yes ma’am!” Galo yelps, shooting straight up, and that’s the end of their conversation for that class.

Between first and second period, he’s digging his books out of his his locker, and then he feels a gentle hand settle at the small of his back. “Hey,” Lio says softly, and Galo beams, turning to him.

“Hey, babe,” he says, and leans down to peck a kiss to Lio’s lips, just because he can. “What’s up?”

“Mmm.” Lio leans into his side, just a little. His forehead is furrowed, mouth small and tight. “Nothing much.”

Galo frowns. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Lio shakes his head a little, hair brushing Galo’s arm. It’s soft and nice and Galo’s so glad he’s noticed how much he enjoys all this little touch, so he can appreciate it. “I’m just not looking forward to my next class.”

“It’s history, right?” Galo says, and comes up short. “Oh. With, uh…”

“Foresight,” Lio says, a little grimly. He’s still got a hand on Galo’s back, which means Galo can feel his fingers flex a little. “It’ll be fine. I can handle him.”

“Mmm.” Galo bites his lip. “Okay, I have an idea.”

“That’s worrying,” Lio says.

“Shut up!” Galo bops his nose; Lio wrinkles it, which doesn’t get any less cute. “Come on, I’m walking you to class.”

“I’ll take it,” Lio says, and reaches down to catch Galo’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Good, ‘cause I’m doing it,” Galo says. “Hey, give me your books.”

“Are we in _Grease?_ ” Lio asks, but he doesn’t resist when Galo reaches over and tugs them out of his arms.

“What’s _Grease?_ ”

“An old movie,” Lio says, sidestepping around a couple making out in front of a locker. “I’m making fun of you.”

“That’s fine,” Galo says, because Lio’s smiling again, the tiny quirk of lips that means Galo’s doing something he finds funny but sweet. “I can take it.”

“How are you real,” Lio says, laughing, and squeezes his hand, and they’re both still smiling as they reach the classroom door.

“Hello, Mr. Foresight,” Galo says, very loudly.

The look Kray Foresight gives them is complicated and ugly, a whole lot of nastiness slipping free, and Galo doesn’t want to pick it apart. He turns away instead and follows Lio to a desk in the second row from the back, right by the rain-spattered windows. Lio props his hip on the desktop, shrugging one shoulder.

“Okay,” Galo says, and drops Lio’s books on the desk. His back is kind of prickling, but he ignores it. He squeezes Lio’s hand. “I’ll see you at lunch, okay, babe?”

Foresight clears his throat at the front of the classroom. “Boys,” he says, and Galo kind of goes stiff. “Let’s remember to behave appropriately in the classroom, hm?”

“We are behaving appropriately,” Lio says, glaring over Galo’s shoulder. “The school policy on PDA is that hugging and kissing are inappropriate on school grounds, and we’re not doing either of those things.”

“Whoa, no _hugging?”_ Galo says. “Seriously? How come you know that, anyway?” Also, good to know because he was definitely going to kiss Lio or at _least_ hug him.

“This,” Lio says, turning towards Galo again just a little. “This is why.” Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.

“Boys,” Foresight says again, and Lio says, lip curling, “Just _try_ it.” Galo does turn, then, and meets Foresight’s cold eyes with his own.

The moment goes on for a long, long time, and it kind of feels like the classroom’s gone quiet. Galo checks his chest for the sharp-edged pieces lodged there on Monday, and finds them gone. The marks are sore and raw still, and may be for a while, but… there’s so much more in his life, right now, than Kray Foresight. It turns out.

He turns back and takes Lio’s other hand, squeezing both. “See you later, babe,” he says, and leans forward, bumping his forehead against Lio’s. “Seriously, come sit with us at lunch. With the ducklings! Aina invited you, even.”

“That sounds cramped,” Lio says, and then, when Galo tries making his eyes as big and pleading as possible, “Okay, okay. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Galo says. There’s a strand of hair falling across Lio’s face, and he brushes it back, tucks it behind Lio’s ear. Because he can, because he’s allowed.

“Gross,” someone says behind them, but Lio’s hair is soft under his fingers, and Lio’s eyes are warm on him. Not angry, even, just warm and fond and happy.

“See you later,” Lio says, and reaches up to stroke his thumb gently over Galo’s cheek.

Galo only gets a glimpse of Foresight as he leaves, out of the corner of his eye. He’s bright red, and probably he’s mad as hell, but Galo doesn’t take a better look. He doesn’t need to.

* * *

The sun is out by lunch, emerging in a brilliant sunshower and washing the cafeteria in bubbles of rippled light. Galo crosses the room with his hand gentle and sure on Lio’s back, the well-worn fabric of his jacket soft under Galo’s palm. (Galo’s own lunch tray is balanced on his other hand — last summer’s waiter job coming in handy!) Right up against the window, their table is catching the full glorious rush of the sunlight. Every raindrop on the windows scatters a tiny rainbow or traces a delicate bubble on the Formica.

“Hello,” Lio says stiffly, hovering at the edge of the table. Everyone looks up.

“Hey!” Lucia chirps, kicking out a chair in his general direction, and goes back to the argument she’s having with Varys. The chair kind of bumps into Galo’s knee, actually, but she didn’t mean for that to happen.

“Well, sit,” Aina says, and scoots her tray a little to the side. “Your other friends are eating with us too, right?”

“They’re in line,” Lio says, and settles slowly into the seat. It kind of inherently means Galo has to stop touching him, so Galo drops into the next chair over. It’s going to be a little crowded, but the table behind them is empty; he snags a spare chair just in case.

“Cool, cool,” Varys says. “Hey, tell Lucia that if it starts with ‘so one time on Mythbusters’ we’re not fucking doing it.” He points at Lio, who raises his eyebrows.

“Which episode?” he asks.

“No, _nope,_ wrong answer, Galo, tell your boyfriend we have enough crazy people at this table —”

“Oh, you guys know already?” Galo asks. Aina turns faintly pink.

“You did refuse to take your hands off me the entire way over here,” Lio says, and hooks his ankle over Galo’s under the table.

“Did you want me to?” Galo asks.

“No.” Lio’s smile is small and smug and Galo’s new favorite Lio smile. Wait, no, no it isn’t, because there’s Lio’s soft sweet smile when Galo’s kissing him, and his sharp one from Kray’s room earlier, all ferocity and teeth, and the one when he’s laughing at something Galo said, and — okay, it’s a new one on the list! It’s a good Lio smile.

“But _listen,_ ” Lucia says, planting her hands on the table, “we don’t need anything but a car and a good driver —”

“I already don’t like this,” Remi says.

“Uh. Hi?” That’s the pizza kid, appearing over Galo’s shoulder.

“Oh, hey, the ducklings are here!” Galo says, and waves towards the free chairs.

“I should not have let you meet my mother,” Lio says.

“Your mom’s cool!” Galo says.

“She is,” Thyma agrees, sliding into her own chair. “She likes my earrings.” She taps one, a big gold hoop that looks like something Tialma might wear.

“They _are_ nice,” Aina says, with an air of professional analysis. “Oh, hey, did you look over the new music for band yet?”

“Wait,” Galo says, “Thyma, what about your essay? Did it turn out okay?”

“Oh!” She looks startled. “I got an extension, yeah, I have till next week. And my outline's okay, so it's easier the second time.”

“Oh, that's great!” Galo's genuinely relieved; he was worried. Thyma smiles, ducking her head.

“So,” the pizza kid — Galo’s going to have to ask Lio about their names if they’re all gonna be friends — says, “Why do we need a good driver? Because I deliver a lot of pizza in a hurry, but I’m not, like, _The Fast and the Hungry_ or whatever.” Galo bursts out laughing.

“No,” Remi says. “We’re not doing it.”

“But a _thirty-nine percent fuel efficiency —_ ”

“No!”

“I want to hear her out,” Lio says, eyes bright and amused and warm as he wrestles with the packaging on his milk.

“I dunno,” Galo says thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of cool stuff on Mythbusters, but they do a lot of fire —”

‘There’s not going to be a fire!” Lucia says indignantly.

“That’s an interesting assumption,” Varys says.

This debate rages for another minute or so — still with no actual explanation of what Lucia actually wants to do — when they’re interrupted by the clattering thump of plastic on Formica, on Lio’s other side from Galo.

“Hey,” Ignis says calmly, standing behind his lunch tray, and reaches over to snag a chair from another table. There’s not really enough space for him — they didn’t really have enough space for all the ducklings, even — so everyone has to kind of shove their knees against each other. “Mind if I sit here? Hey, Galo. Hey, Varys, been a while.” He extends his hand for a fist-bump, which Galo and then Varys both provide.

“Why?” Lio asks, eyebrows raised. Galo catches his hand and squeezes.

“Better company,” Ignis says, and flips the chair around to sit. “Nice shiner, Galo. Try to duck.”

“I had other stuff to be worrying about!” Galo says.

“I’m with him on this one,” Lio says. “Try to duck.”

“Poke him in the eye,” Aina suggests. “Maybe it’ll remind him to duck next time.”

“Hey!” Galo covers his eye protectively. “I’ll duck, I’ll duck! If there’s nothing more important I need to be doing.”

“You could also not get in another fight,” Varys says. “Just an idea.”

“Listen to the man,” Ignis says, pointing at him with a plastic fork. “So, did you hear? Foresight’s out as football coach.”

“What?” everyone says over each other, even the band kids.

“Yup,” Ignis says, chewing slowly. His voice is carefully even. “Effective immediately. Unacceptable standards of leadership behavior.” He swallows. “My dad’s on the school board. It’s public knowledge, he just knew first.”

“Huh,” Galo says. He’s not sure what he feels; it’s more than could’ve happened and a lot less, at the same time. He glances over, and to his surprise, Lio is grinning, glinting-fierce.

“Oh, that’s good,” he says. “That’s _good._ ”

“Huh?” Galo says. “You don’t even play football.”

“It’s not about that,” Lio says, turning to him. “There’s a stipend for coaching extracurriculars. He just lost — what? Five thousand dollars a year?”

Several people whistle.

“At least,” Ignis says. “It’s a percentage of whatever he already makes.”

“ _Oh._ ” Galo checks in on the feelings in his gut, and finds a small spiteful spark and a question. “That’s going to mess with his reputation, right? Bad leadership behavior? So he can’t get elected superintendent or anything?”

“Sure won’t help,” Ignis says calmly, loading up another forkful of sloppy joe. He tilts his head towards Galo and Lio, sunglasses hiding his expression. “So. Does that mean it’s true?”

“I dunno!” Galo says. “A lot of things are true.” He doesn’t mean to be funny, but Aina and Lio both laugh at him. So does Thyma, which is nice at least.

“That Coach called you a fag,” Ignis says, and points — not at Galo, but past him, towards Lio. “And Vulcan took that as a suggestion to grab a couple buddies and jump you, and Galo stepped in to stop it. There also might’ve been six other guys and a knife, apparently.”

“Uh, only three of them and no knife,” Galo says, pretty blankly. How’d _that_ get twisted around like that?

“And Vulcan doesn’t need any encouragement to be an ass,” Lio says. Aina makes a scoffing noise of agreement.

“Maybe, but he’s gotten it anyway,” Ignis says, in the exact mild tone that he always uses when talking to Vulcan himself. Oh _._ Ignis _hates_ him, huh. “There’s a reason I thought it might be more fun with you guys.”

“There’s still time to join band,” Varys says. “Can always fit you in the drum section.”

“Uh?” Galo says, because the rumors are also really wrong about how it started and Lio didn’t say anything about that part? He glances over, and Lio gives his hand a gentle squeeze and meets his eyes, patient and steady.

“We can just leave it like that,” he murmurs, too quiet for anyone but Galo to hear, and: _oh._ For a second his chest aches again, shoulders prickling: phantom cold from the bathroom tile. That’s what Lio’s offering to let him hide.

It’s not true, though, and people should know the truth. “Uh!” Galo says again, louder. “Anyway, Vulcan didn’t show up till later, and it wasn’t Lio who, uh, Mr. Foresight called a fag. It was me.” The table sort of stops talking, a quiet bubble in the noise of the lunchroom. “Also some other stuff.”

“Damn,” Varys says at last. “That part was true?”

“Yup,” Galo says. His mouth goes a little flat and thin for a second, without his permission. And then, just kind of in case, he holds up his wrist, the rainbow bracelet and Lio’s carefully-tied knot.

Lio squeezes his other hand, tight.

“Yeah,” Ignis says, looking at him. “That sure sounds like a poor standard of behavior to me.”

“Right?!” Galo says, suddenly ebullient. “What the hell?! Who _does_ that?”

“People who want to lose five grand a year,” Ignis says. “Hope he thinks it’s worth it.” It’s that even, restrained tone again, and Galo is suddenly glad for sure that he signed up for football, glad he put up with Vulcan if it meant Ignis got to be his captain.

“Huh,” Lio says frankly, eyebrows raised, and props his elbows on the table to stare at Ignis. “You’re a surprise.” Galo blinks.

“How do you mean?” Ignis asks calmly.

“You’re not pissed?” Lio says. “About losing your coach? Weren’t you going to the playoffs, or something?”

“In ‘em,” Ignis says. “He had it coming.”

“It’s that simple?” Lio asks, still an edge of a challenge in it.

“Yep,” Ignis says, and runs his roll through his sauce. “That simple.”

Galo pokes Lio in the shoulder. “See! Not everyone sucks.”

Lio’s eyes go a little lost. “Enough do.”

“But not all of them,” Galo says, and pecks a kiss to his mouth. “You don’t!”

Lio raises his eyebrows, which takes Galo a second and then he kind of chokes. “You know what I meant!” he says.

“Yes,” Lio says, smug now. “I do.” He reaches over to snag a chip off of Galo’s tray , lefthanded because Galo’s still holding his right.

“Those are _my chips,_ ” Galo complains, not at all moving to stop him.

“I know,” Lio says, and takes another one.

“Wow,” Aina says, from their other side.

“Yeah, ew,” Lucia says. “In a gross coupley way, not a homophobe way.”

“I was just thinking you’re whipped,” Aina says, with a meaningful look at Galo’s lunch.

“I guess that’s one form of equality,” Lio says to Lucia, while Galo is busy staring at Aina in abject betrayal. Remi is kind of laughing at all of them, and so is the goth girl, while the pizza kid has gotten into some kind of happy argument with Varys somehow. Ignis is offering Thyma half his cookie, gentle and friendly in the way he can switch on sometimes.

Galo presses his thigh against Lio’s, and they’re all pushed close enough that Lio can lean his head against Galo’s shoulder, eyebrow ring glinting. Galo kisses the top of his head, just because he can, and glances around the table again, at the water-scattered light falling over all of them.

This is enough. Whatever happens, this, right here, is enough to get through it all right. To make it good.

“Hey,” he says to Lio softly, quiet enough for only them to hear. His voice must come out a little rough, because Lio’s face goes all concerned.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Nope,” Galo says. “Way, way better. Cause I’ve got you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Lio says, but he can’t hide the way he’s smiling. “I’m dating an idiot.”

“Yep,” Galo says blissfully. “You sure are. And you know what? It’s gonna be _great_.”


	11. notes, thanks, and references

**Fic Title**

From "You Were Cool" by the Mountain Goats.

**Chapter One**

Title from “Tik Tok” by Kesha.

**Chapter Two**

From “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster the People.

_Catcher in the Rye:_ novel by JD Salinger about a depressed, lonely teenager roaming New York City for a few days while searching for connection.

_The Jungle:_ 1906 novel by Upton Sinclair about poverty and exploitation of immigrants in Chicago, noted for several extensive descriptions of deeply unsanitary goings-on in the meat-packing industry. Written with the active intent of addressing social injustice.

“Super Bass” is by Nicki Minaj.

_Out of the night that covers me / black as the pit from pole to pole / I thank whatever gods may be / for my unconquerable soul._ From “Invictus,” a poem by William Ernest Henley.

_I’ve heard it in the chillest land…_ From “Hope is the thing with feathers,” by Emily Dickinson.

_My candle burns at both ends / it will not last the night…_ “First Fig,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, although nobody calls it that. The whole poem appears in-text.

**Chapter Three:**

Title from “Don’t You Know Who I Think I Am?” by Fall Out Boy, which is also sung during the band practice.

_We’re going down, down, in an earlier round…_ From “Sugar, We’re Going Down,” also by Fall Out Boy, who appear a lot in this chapter.

_I am not afraid to keep on living…_ “Famous Last Words” by My Chemical Romance.

Limewire: an early filesharing / torrent client. 

_I’ve loved everything about you that hurts._ From “G.I.N.A.S.F.S.” by Fall Out Boy.

_I want to scream ‘I love you’ from the top of my lungs, but I’m afraid that someone else will hear me._ From “The (Shipped) Gold Standard,” by Fall Out Boy, which is also the song Lio mentions earlier in the chapter. I didn’t include the stylized punctuation in the dialogue, which hurt a bit, but Galo has no way to know it’s supposed to be there and I decided not to imply that Lio is producing a parenthesis with his mouth.

_Love never wanted me, but I took it anyway._ From “XO,” by Fall Out Boy once again.

**Chapter Four:**

Title from “Use Somebody” by Kings of Leon.

Chapter title: from “Fearless,” by Taylor Swift.

_Come one come all, you’re just in time to witness my first breakdown…_ From “Come One, Come All,” by All Time Low.

_Can I take you to the movie, can I take you to the show…_ From “Houses of the Holy,” by, as mentioned in-story, Led Zeppelin.

Sneezing baby panda: reuploaded [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOdQ88rQ464&feature=youtu.be).

Slow-motion footage channel: The Slow Mo Guys on Youtube. [Six-foot water balloon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_OyHUqIIOU), [colorful droplet physics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNI-LIVs-to), [jumping cat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xN12kR4TLc), and [just one of their many explosions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFe7sKz8HSU).

‘Some kind of cartoon bug with big yellow eyes’: it’s a Heartless from Kingdom Hearts.

Kittens climbing stairs: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eI9v8M3_1SY).

Hamster on a piano: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uhrdq1N9sgQ).

Parrot singing “Bodies” by Drowning Pool: [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uguXNL93fWg).

**Chapter Five:**

Title from “Fearless” by Taylor Swift.

_You would not believe your eyes if ten million fireflies…_ From “Fireflies,” by Owl City.

All of Vinny’s tricks are in fact possible to teach rats to do.

The roller rink in this chapter is loosely based on, though not intended to be, [Guptill’s Arena](https://www.guptillsarena.com/index.html) in upstate New York. There's a video of the light show on YouTube [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXWff7-Pmw8) (strobe warning). It's less dark than the camera suggests, which is how no one is crashing into each other. The pairs-skate-only thing is completely and entirely real, both there and at other skating arenas. My hand to God.

_Fifty-five pound draw weight_ : The draw weight of a bow is the amount of force required to pull the bowstring back. Fifty-five pounds is a fairly standard weight, but it’s hefty for a guy as small as Lio. (My archery knowledge is limited and theoretical, but I did look this up.)

_It’s a love story, baby, just say yes._ From “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.

**Chapter Six:**

Title from “Lying Is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off,” by Panic! At the Disco.

_When the lights go out, will you take me with you, and carry all this broken bone?_ From “Summertime,” by My Chemical Romance.

Spanish: Note that I took a few years of Spanish in high school and haven’t used it since. A lot of Google went into this. Kindly blame any errors on how Galo is not very good at it either.

_Cómo me digo roller skates?_ “How do I say roller skates?” / “How do I say to myself, roller skates?”

_Nosotros fuimos a usar patines de ruedas._ “We went to use roller skates.”

_Y ahora escribo este!_ “And now I write this!” (Galo means “am writing,” but doesn’t know the right verb form for that.)

**Chapter Seven:**

Title from “Ignorance,” by Paramore.

**Chapter Eight:**

Chapter title: “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” by My Chemical Romance, of course.

**Chapter Nine:**

Title from “I’m Not Calling You a Liar” by Florence + the Machine.

_But we are what we are ‘till the day we die, or till we don’t have the strength to go on._ “The Strength to Go On,” by Rise Against.

_Lay down with me, don’t worry, just breathe…_ “Take My Hand,” by The Cab. This is the same song playing a few lines later.

**Chapter Ten:**

Title from “Anna Sun,” by Walk the Moon.

_The Crucible:_ a play by Arthur Miller which uses the Salem Witch trials as a metaphor for McCarthyism and, more generally, for the damage done by hatred, rumor, and paranoia.

_Grease:_ A 50’s nostalgia romance movie set in high school.

The _Mythbusters_ episode that Lucia references is episode 80, “Big Rig Myths.” Remi is absolutely correct: don’t do it, you might die.

* * *

I owe thanks to a great many people for this. First and foremost to Michelle, not only for creating such incredibly gorgeous art, but for not flying to Chicago to chase my flaky ass down. [Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonisland) and [Scotty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondegreen), first readers and eternal sources of support. Kate again, for school administration facts. [Ginny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia) and [Avery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetingmadness), for help picking out everyone's instruments. A friend who doesn't even know about my Ao3 account, for help with the bruising. My babiest brother, who _really_ doesn't know about my Ao3 account please God, but who football-picked several scenes for me. (I may have, in the name of deniability, ctrl+F'd the names to Gary and Luke, if you want some deeply cursed 90s dub energy in your life today.) My oldest baby brother, see previous note about the Ao3 account, for picking out the Mythbusters episode Lucia wants to emulate. And of course the mods, for putting all of this together.

If you're wondering what's going on with a few of Galo's quirks: within this fic, he has undiagnosed ADHD. Thus his trouble focusing on books, as well as his occasional physical stimming. (Entertainingly, my own ADHD works exactly the opposite of his — I hyperfocus on written books and lose focus on audio immediately). ADHD can also manifest as: impulsiveness, hyperactivity, hyperfixation on a particular interest or goal, and inability to control the volume of one's own voice, if anyone is wondering what about his movie characterization led to _this_ creative decision. 

Behind-the-scenes fact: Tialma actually began life as a canon-verse OC, though I never got around to writing that story. In canon timeline, I imagined that Galo stayed with her for a while, but she awoke as a Burnish before she could adopt him. He was never told exactly what happened to her, only that she "became ill." Post-movie, Lio recognizes her in Galo's photos and reunites them. 

Writing this was a hell of a personal process. The vast majority of what happens in it is lifted from life, with creative license ranging from "extensive" to "none whatsoever." It took me a long, _long_ time to be able to tell this story. I'm old enough to file my own taxes and fuss about my health insurance and get excited about new cookware and complain about my back, and it was only this year that I was able to sit down and write this story. I still couldn't have written it from Lio's perspective; I needed the distance.

I _shall_ be earnest on main: I didn't and don't want to write another shitty PSA, and I certainly don't have any solutions. But if Lio's story resonates with you, allow me to say: it is wrong. It's not normal, it's not okay, it's not what everybody goes through. It's not your fault. You're not weak or oversensitive if it's fucking you up. It's not your job to respond 'correctly,' or to stay silent and unresponsive until they get bored and stop tormenting you. And this is not the treatment that you can expect from the rest of the world, either. It's not what it will be like forever. I know that's thin comfort. 

The song I used for the fic title has a verse: _I hope you love your life now / like I love mine / I hope the painful memories only flex their power over you / a little of the time._ I do love my life now, in a way that I never thought was possible when I was sixteen. 

I hope you pass through your years and come out the other side still breathing. I hope you find something worth having when you do.


End file.
